I was invited to be a guest at a party the other night. I really didn’t want to go but went anyway. It was an Elvis party with a flashy Elvis impersonator and all the bullshit trimmings. Oh the joy. As I walked around I looked at all of these women, who looked and dressed like hookers, trying to land the right man. Not all of them were that scurvy nature, my friend had two friends who were very cool, but some were comical. I wondered if they knew how ridiculous they looked? Big makeup, fake boobs, fake nails and the presence of the eternal fake laugh, made me want to puke.
Of course, I got some strange looks and had my ass grabbed more than if I was sitting in a bushel of crabs. I think the funniest lady was the one who asked, “Do you ride motorcycles?”
When I responded that I did, she asked if I had gotten into the whole tattoo thing. As I lifted my sleeve to reveal all my ink she asked, “Do you ride with a bunch of guys, a group or a club, you know, those people who hurt people?”
I laughed and said, “You have no idea.” I walked away. The older I get, the more I’ve learned to accept people for whom they are and what they are. It wasn't always like that, though. Kind of like when I took one of the worse ass beatings I ever took in my life. Three of my riding buddies and I where in the Stoned Pony in Asbury Park New Jersey one night, and as we came out we where feeling extraordinarily ready to fight.
One of my pals said there was a fag bar down the street. “Let’s go kick some faggot ass and have some fun,” he said. We all agreed and off we went, four bad-asses going to beat up some poor, helpless, fags. Were we tough or what?
We entered the bar, ordered a beer and one of the guys said out loud, “Hey, this is a fag bar, right?” That was one of the last things I remember. The next thing I saw was this wall of bouncers that stormed out from the back and proceeded to beat the shit out of us, from one end of the bar to the other. We all woke up in a pile in the parking lot.
I was bleeding from my nose, my head, both elbows, and one knee, I also had my right eye closed from a punch or boot, not sure which, and I had two cracked ribs and a couple broken fingers. The other guys weren’t in any better shape. There where two broken noses and a few more cracked ribs, and we where all bleeding from somewhere. As we picked ourselves up and slowly got our bearings, we swore to each other we would never admit what happened. But I learned a whole new meaning for the word “respect” that night. Considering the other three guys are dead now, I figure it’s ok to tell.
I’m going to roll back to when I learned my first lesson about accepting people for whom they are and not for whom you want them to be. It was the day my Rock was born. He was one and a half months premature and only weighed six pounds. He was delivered by caesarian because he was transverse, which meant he had his back facing the birth canal. When he came out he was almost dead, and I never really got a chance to see him very much before they whisked him away to be worked on.
Later they told me he was upstairs and I could go see him through the glass. As I walked up to the glass I saw a Downs syndrome baby lying in the first crib. I started shaking and thought to myself, it’s ok I can deal with this. It doesn’t matter if he’s different, he'll be fine. I remember feeling an overwhelming feeling of pride to be staring at my son, and it didn’t matter that he might be deformed, he was my son.
One of the nurses came over and asked my name through the glass and as she walked over to the cribs she walked right towards the baby with downs syndrome. Just as she arrived at the cribs, she turned to the left and picked up the baby next to him. I broke down and cried for the unbelievable feeling of joy, because it wasn't my son who had this horrible disease, but I also encountered an overwhelming feeling of guilt for feeling that way. I swore that day it wouldn’t have mattered if my son was green with polka dots, had downs syndrome, was gay, was straight, whatever. I swore I would love him no matter what, and the funny thing is, if you agree to accept your owns preferences then you have to accept everyone else’s.
Again we come back to another lesson my son has taught me, tolerance of others not only in their beliefs but also in their views and their feelings. I remember standing in the hospital and praying for the family of the little boy I thought was mine. I hoped he would be okay. Even if only for a moment, I was his Dad and he taught me a lot in that short time.
Thank you
–Chet
