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Meanie's mother divorced his dad before he could form any memories (of him). Depending on who you asked, it was:
- Occasionally referred-to as "both a blessin'-an'-a-curse".
- Would never even be contemplateable to ever think of those circumstances in that manner.
- The foundation upon which Meanie learned how to become who he would and would-not become as an adult.
Meanie's mother's performance of June Cleaver (at Marble Meadow's Centerfield Playhouse) was how she convinced Meanie's future stepdad (who played Ward Cleaver) to marry her. Depending on what year you happened to talk to any of them, it was either: The role she was born-an'-raised to play; A convenient lifeboat (of sorts); Much better than her earlier role as the clumsy, baby-trapping, waitress (at The Inn's Mainhouse on the Hill); Or, it was "just another port in the storm (for all involved)".
After taking their renditions of June and Ward Cleaver on-the-road—and dragging Meanie along—Meanie's mother's new husband's character encouraged/caused/magnified Meanie's mother to develop/create/accelerate her increasingly authoritarian retinue in order to (punish Meanie for being an O'Tae) find a reason to keep Meanie in a constant state of uncertainty. Consequently, some oddly vague things were referred-to as sins and Meanie was beaten-down for some random (other) oddly specific things.
Even though those vague-specifics changed as Meanie grew, their absolute-forbidden nature was something of which Meanie's mother was always 100% certain. Her highlight-reel included various levels of physical and mental punishments for: riding bicycles; playing with dolls or action figures; not talking and just staring when being scolded; always asking 'why' (called talking-back); crying for any reason; accusing any grownup of deception or of being wrong; playing with 'unapproved-of' neighbors or schoolmates (within her vicinity) or (on the rare occasion Meanie was permitted to leave the yard) playing with any 'unapproved-of' toys belonging to others. ["Hey Timmy, wanna come over an' shoot at GI-Joe's with my BB-gun?" . . . "Can't. I'm not allowed."]
'He raped me' was the foreign-sounding sentence his mother readily unsheathed after Meanie was old enough to wonder, naive enough to expect a logical explanation, and bold enough to ask why she had left his dad before he could remember his face. Meanie had nobody to request another explanation from. Step-dad was too comfortably-afraid of losing his ready-made facade-family and Sunday school teacher's, pastor's, and adult neighbor's (murmuring *ask yer parents*) would always report Meanie's queries (resulting in an excuse for more or additional punishments). And since he was still too young for elementary school, Meanie had no older kids to ask what rape was.
Meanie never actually knew that was his nickname. He thought what he did with other boys was "teasing" and that it was funny, entertaining (and felt a little exciting). He had no idea that his behavior was called bullying (or that he was doing it to the other boys). He did, eventually, realize—once he was privileged-enough to earn his own personal bully (who's knuckle-rap-punches to Meanie's head were never hard enough to bruise and never witnessed by an adult).
In order for middle-schooler little Timmy O'Tae to avoid his mother's worst emotional-torture, he never informed any adult about the daily assaults and constant fear-of-the-next one . . . *when's he gonna catch me again?*
By the time he reached puberty, Tim Cleaver (never mistakenly called O'tae because the Cleaver's were always moving to a new state, new classmates, new neighbors) was an expert at camoflaged-hiding (in a living room or a classroom) and reading the vibrations in every environment with the goal to fine-tune his 'early warning signal'. Tim was always refining it—that was automatic-mandatory. Primary mission (think: Captain Kirk's voice) to better-identify the hidden intent of the sharks in the water before they get within striking range. And most of the sharks have camouflaged themselves to the point that you forget that everything is one form of shark or another. Hammerhead to Nurse; Whale to White.
Jobs after school and during school-breaks (for under-minimum-wage cash) became Tim Cleaver's only way to spend every possible waking hour away-from the Cleaver home and out-of his mother's vicinity. She punish-enforced half of Tim's paychecks into a college savings account; the blessing and curse of which (depending on perspective and when you asked whomever) was that: He never had enough money for socializing or for himself - and - 17-year-old-Tim had compiled the ability to graduate high-school and immediately escape to the cheapest in-state college available at that time. Thanks Mom, he never said; thanks-to-me, she always said.
Late-teenager-Tim Cleaver's mask began to fit less uncomfortably once he transferred to an out-of-state university. He could go daze or sometimes almost unmemorable weaks before forgetting to remember that he still had it on.
Because the Art of Presenting a Low Profile
was all Tim's every memorable experience in his entire crib-to-college
existence had ingrained/trained/practiced, joining a huge faceless
organization and becoming
just another small knuckle-joint in the machine (disappearing) was The
Best-Only Available Option, behaviorally.
Imagine yourself seeing this from Tim's perspective: He was thinking of a
mind other than his own mind. And this other mind has the ability to run a diagnostics report of it's internal function system and a diagnosis can be made—by Tim about Tim—in a way that Tim *thinks* he is behaving/believing in an objective (switching to subjective) manner of the "good shark". Everyone is a good shark inside of themselves. On their own stage. Of course, for every one of us, some form of internal regulator must be built up from a chosen "baseline" value-system (full disclosure: default-mode is the one instilled/reinforced by adult-guardians). As awareness of the rational combines with the sometimes-arbitrary emotional—in a chaotic shark-soup of cause-and-effect—the intended-state to remain in a 'remind myself to never forget' frame-of-mind, clashes with the 'I'm
now-and-forever anchored to a point of consistent evaluation of itself/myself,' which exists only in this moment. Evaluate
and compare those impressive wavelengths of qualia (in-of a *musical-scratch-sniff postcard*) to all prior un-informed states of previously-held ignorance/naivety . . . drifting . . . forgetting . . . you've lost
its leash . . . is it now-feral and should it not-now be thought of as apart from chaos? It's not simple to imagine Tim's shoes on your feet; or is it?
All
if-of who Tim has experienced to-date was aided/abetted as well as informed-formed by [list the ever-growing spectrum of
consciousness disorders] . . . CPTSD/Asperger's/Autism/Personal Logic-Honor
System/emotionally programmed by punishment(s) . . .etcetera . . . Tim was (still, unfortunately) perfecting the art of presenting a low profile (even though the reasons to do-so were less-necessary).
Preliminarily accepting the uniform-role of follower; Encouraging
people to never think about you when you were not in the room; Never blaming anyone besides yourself and your own failings: These
were a slice of Tim's behaviors (depending on who you want to believe). And, at the same time, Tim's early warning antenna became even more finely tuned (any hint of unrest on any horizon was immediately met with fawning and acquiescent attention toward whomever caused that unrest). This was still the case even-though he was associating with (or thinking about) his mother and step father less and less-often. Then death. Then estrange.
Then. Eventually, or some later when, Old Timothy O'tae changed who he was. By legally returning to his preferred name and starting to fulfill the life he was determined to desire. As Timothy fully embraced the truthful manner of living without hypocrisy, he recognized (for the first time in his relatively long life) that he was:
No longer able to fully bully himself
Shamefully shameful
Shy-fully selfish
Willingly holding-to-held himself up
To the standards required of him by himself
Dealing-to-dealt with each of the selvwe's
And all our my me's
I know that only I kin ken
But only because I allow myself
Certain get-away-with's or -without's
Which side-step all forms
Of need for self-recriminating behaviors
So, no longer vexing myself with shame
Or allowing any self-blame to ricochet around
And never permitting vitriolic self-effacement
Allows the bliss-happy-neutral to root
And it - then - becomes the dominant
Mood-tone personality theme-song aura
Which Emanates from the baseline level grasp
Of the areas in front of and adjacent the occipital lobe
As longer experiences rest between 8.5 and 10.5
Tempered-to (not-to) all the way to eleven
Forming unobserved-waves which enlighten while
Lengthening love's amplitude | Rinse-repeat
As the selves dance in every best-imagined
And the crest of a wave continues floating
Always crossing here
At some point
h e r e
