Thursday, April 29, 2010

Frat House Memories, A Cautionary Fable (Part 3 of 3))



Following Eric’s reaction to my newly acquired lodgings I nearly didn’t ask my parents to help me move in for fear of them calling the health board to shut the place down, but their reaction was quite the opposite of disgust: they were downright enthusiastic to help me move. My mother was babbling a mile a minute when I told her of my decision, extolling the virtues of getting out on one’s own.

“Oh Kenny that’s so wonderful!” she exclaimed, taking my clothes out of my drawers and stuffing them haphazardly into brown paper grocery bags. “You’re going to make new friends and have new adventures and have such a wonderful time! I’m so excited for you!”

She had emptied my entire dresser and was eyeing the space it currently occupied (and would conversely free up when I left) with a look that could be easily mistaken for drug induced euphoria. When she moved to my closet and began sliding all my hangers together for quick removal I felt the need to stop her.

“Mom,” I said, hoping the combination of tactile stimulation and verbal address would bring her to the present. “I’m not moving out today.”

Her head snapped around as if she had been rear ended on the highway and the look on her face was what you might expect from someone who had: a mix of anger and confusion tinged with a bit of sickness.

“Oh,” she said, disappointment apparent and unconcealed. “Well, whenever you’re ready, your father and I are ready to help. Sure you don’t wanna move your bed, dresser, and some other small stuff today?” That was encouraging.

Whereas my mother was decidedly catholic and indirect about the situation, my father was straightforward and about as subtle as right hook.

“It ain’t no secret I like to have my “eggs” in the morning,” He said, eyeing me warily as he cracked open his morning Coors-in-the-yellow-can. “and the quicker you get to movin out the quicker I get to be doin what I like. Catch my drift?”

I nodded vigorously although I had absolutely no idea what he meant. I had never seen my father eat anything but Coors Heavy in the morning for as far back as I could recall.

Did I mention my dad is a black man? I can see how the Coors heavy would confuse some readers if they didn’t know that. Did I mention that my mother is a white woman? I figured the reference to Catholicism a few pages back would make white or Mexican the only viable options.

Did I mention that I’m a biracial child? I’m not sure if that’s the proper terminology for my condition, as I’ve heard so many over the years. Let me list some of my favorites.

- Oreo
- Blackinese (because of my squinty eyes)
- Wack (a clever mix of white and black)
- Half-rican

I apologize if I’ve destroyed the notion of the main character you've already formulated in your mind's eye, but you’re going to have to put aside that blonde-haired, blue-eyed, cargo-shorts-wearing, pop-collared, titled-visored, flip-flopped, WWJD-braceleted, jeep-driving, Abercrombie dipshit if you really want to enjoy this story.

This is the tale of a Half-rican named Ken and his experience as a frat boy, er, man. Frat man.

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