Chapter 2: Tribulations Part 1: An Uncommon Introduction

For the benefit of those who were not paying attention, my name is Jack; and this is the story of my life.

While reflecting on more typical autobiographical introductions, one should be inclined to understand that normal practices have indicated - following an introduction, the narrator should proceed to indulge upon the most intimate details that give a character identity - i.e, place of birth, general habits and annoyances, hair and eye color, height, general ancestry, etcetera and etcetera - but I must confess that I find such stereotypical beginnings bothersome and unecessary. The fact of the matter is, these details are quite inconsequential.

The story of my life, being both tragic and interspersed with hopeful expectations, as most stories are, must begin with the moment I developed the ability to record the events and circumstances surrounding my existence that had a direct, though miniscule impact on this world; a habit I inherited from my mother.

However, in an attempt to conserve valuable time, I shall forego the remainder of my speech and spring to the foundation of this two-part question at hand: when did this moment begin, and how could it possibly impact this world?

This moment, as mentioned previously, began the instant I developed the ability to record certain events and circumstances. The first fourteen years of my life were a blur of monotonous daily repetitions, therefore an accurate timeline would be imperceptible; although logical reasoning would lead me to believe that I began recording these events at the very tender age of eight years old. It would be easy to disregard the importance of this age, seeing as the average eight year old boy is more concerned with creating mischief than a serious attempt to document his life. I, as may have already been deduced, was not your average eight year old boy: the reasons for this fact to be revealed later.

This fact, already established as fact, though dependent on my word for the moment, leads us to the second part of this question at hand: how could these events possibly impact this world? From a philosophical stand-point, one can assume that every decision made by every individual entangles the web of humanity into an even more befuddled degree. The world is a science of what ifs.

Example: If I were to tell you at precisely 9:20 tomorrow morning, you will be struck by lightning the moment you walk out your front door, what would you do? Would you leave at 9:19 or 9:21? Would you exit through the back door or a window instead? Or would you consider the probability that I could predict such an unforseeable fate absolute nonsene and deliberately walk through your front door at exactly 9:20, wait until your watch struck 9:21, just to prove me wrong? Perhaps, you would arrange for someone to meet you outside your front door at said time in order to stand witness. And as all these obsessive deliberations occupy your intelligent curiosity, what if I were to confess after the fact, at approximately 9:25 A.M., I had deliberately and cruelly misinformed you - that although I did foresee this unfortunate occurence in your near future, I knew all along that it would happen at 11:30 at night - and that it would not occur by instance of lightning, but that a complete stranger would steal into your bedroom while you slept and smother you with your own pillow, just to spare you the indignity of old age?

What would you say then? How would this change your superstitious preparations? There are many ifs and possibilities in this hypothesis, the least of which being that I had no preinclination of your demise at all. And now you accuse me of premeditating murder, I suppose, but at least now you understand this dilemma.

And yet, all that was just said is but a scratch upon the surface of this ideal, because every decision we make effects those that inhabit the environment around us.

Once there was a young doctor who was late for an appointment, and his patient after much deliberation and frustration tired of waiting for him and was struck dead by a 1937 Plymouth the moment he left the physician's office. So, who's to blame, the doctor for being late, or the patient for leaving? What if I were to explain that this same doctor walked to his office every day and was habitually late to every appointment with this same patient? Would this change your mind? Or, what if I were to inform you that on this fateful day, this same doctor happened to cross the path of a small girl, only moments from being struck by this same speeding car (the driver of which was also late for an appointment) and saved her; not seven minutes before the impatient patient met his demise?

Apparently, on that dreadful day someone was destined to cross unexpectantly in front of the unpunctual driver's path. Who would you choose to live, and who to die, assuming the situation were not hypathetical? Therein lies God's dilemma, and direct evidence of humanity's involvement on an intimate level.

Every decision effects those around us, whether directly or indirectly, so who can contradict my claim that the events of my troubled childhood did not in fact impact this world, even in some indirect manner; no matter how trivial. In truth, the circumstances of my childhood hardened me into the man I am today. So you see, on a larger scale, who's to say, were I exposed to a more positive and caring environment, with two loving and adoring parents that I would not have grown up to be a functioning citizen of society...in a normal sense. Perhaps, I could have been a doctor (preferably a punctual one), or a compassionate philanthropist: an enhancer of the arts and friend to the poor and unfortunate. I might even have discovered the necessary medicines to rid our planet of all disease. But this was not the life fate dealt me, and it is all because I suffered through an unfortunate and dysfunctional childhood.

My earliest memories take place in Willow Park, Illinois, a mid-sized suburb of Chicago some time during the 1930's. My mother, a french immigrant married my father, an American booze-hound, which from the beginning did not reveal such unrequieted circumstances that would bring their relationship to an abrupt end. Shortly after they were married, my mother Vedette Marcoux was impregnated by my father, who then fled to Mexico with another woman named Maria. I did not discover the truth regarding our abandonment until several months after my mother's passing, when I received her journals written entirely in her native language. Fortunately, Vedette understood the importance of a well-rooted education, and taught me not only to speak French and English, but to read and write in both languages as well. Subsequently, the truth of my father's change of heart was only the first of many dark secrets revealed within her journals.

The fact that my mother was obsessively overprotective was not a secret, however. The foundation of this obsession, or whatever mental faculties triggered it, was responsible for my eventual confinement within the basement of my grandfather's flat where we lived, under lock and key the moment I learned to walk; the first clue to shed light over the fact that I was not an average eight year old boy.

For fourteen years I never ventured beyond the safety of these stairs, living as a recluse involuntarily, but rarely discerned a sensitivity towards confinement. Quite honestly, I had everything I could possibly need, and that which I had not, perceived no awareness that it was needed.

This life of seclusion was all I knew for many years, growing larger in body as my entire world seemed to steadily shrink around me. When I was thirteen, I endeavored to measure the dimensions of my basement universe...forty paces wall to wall lengthwise and thirty paces abroad. A small pair of adjacent weather-soiled windows protruded offensively as the only evidence of an outside world, just below the ceiling on the northern wall; out of reach, even while standing on a chair. Not that it mattered. They were both barred and too small to climb through anyway. Perhaps when I was smaller, I could have discovered means of escape - if I had been wily enough to reach that height - possessed the strength or intelligence to remove the bars - if I had even acquired the curiosity or wherewithal to attempt it in the first place.

This space, my basement universe, provided little confort despite its furnishings. Then again, maybe it purveyed only what was necessary for survival: a twin-sized bed and red upholstered reading chair, small dining table with two chairs (made of oak), a dim reading lamp and end table, drab brown carpet, and a tub and toilet enclosed in the corner.

And yet, rarely did I feel alone in this pseudo-prison. In light of my mother's frequent visits, I had my imagination to keep me company. For in my space, this remodeled basement universe, shelf upon shelf lined these walls, filled with every book imaginable. Throughout the years, I developed a dependency for the characters within them to keep me company; and often did they visit, sometimes waking me in the middle of the night.

Still, what an existence, to live in seclusion with no tangible companionship except one's mother; living a monotonous routine every waking moment. Was I foolish to be content? Or just content in my foolishness? How difficult it is to separate events that run together, colliding like two trains travelling towards each other on the same track.

And now I must digress, before my introduction reaches its closure. My first four years are beyond my memory, but the details of my young life were well documented in my mother's journals. She confessed regretting my imprisonment, but felt very deeply that it was necesary in order to spare me from the evils of the world she had known; namely the escalating crime in our city of Willow Park, the abusive alcoholic strain that plagued my father's side of the family, and her fear that I might possibly repeat the mistakes of her past.

Her handwriting was fluent, skilled, and impressively beautiful. The pages of her journals illuminated a new found respect for her within the deep recesses of my soul, despite my hardened heart. Several pages were spotted with smeared ink and what appeared to be drops of liquid, perhaps her tears...how often had she cried for me over these pages?

Her confessions revealed that she stayed with me day and night until I was four years old, while my grandfather supported us. She left my side only long enough to prepare our meals. As I grew older, I can rarely remember her spending the night with me. Though, as I discovered later in her journals, she was never far away. But she must have stayed through the night while I was only a helpless toddler, and I'm left pondering how lonely and frightened I must have felt when she eventually stopped. But she did love me, didn't she? She must have. The pages of her memoirs, sometimes it seems, were written with a powerful purpose, with definitive propensity that I was meant to discover when I was mature enough to understand them.

It is hard to reveal such words of compassion and remorse. These words were intended for my eyes alone, but my heart is torn assunder at the crossroads of life and living, and the need to justify her intentions grips my inhibitions and shakes them loose. Alas, I will share a few words, in the very least, so someone other than I can experience the beauty of her soul.


****Pour mon Petit Jack, mon enfant, le 18 novembre 1937

"Quelle est la vie ? La vie est une façon bizarre de vous dire que vous allez mourir. Il est tant étrange que mystérieux, en s'ensuivant un sens plus profond de beauté; seulement c'est quelque part au-dessous de la peau où il ne peut pas être touché. Tel est la vie - un rêve - un moment fugitif à temps qui dure dans le coeur, mais une seconde, mais dans l'esprit pour toujours."****

****For my Little Jack, my child, 18 November 1937

What is life? Life is a funny way of telling you that you are going to die. It is both strange and mysterious, ensuing a deeper meaning of beauty; only it is somewhere beneath the skin where it cannot be touched. Such is life - a dream - a fleeting moment in time that lasts in the heart but a second, but in the mind forever."****

I must admit, even though I have struggled to understand the origin of these thoughts and the condition of her heart when they were written, I fully comprehend their meaning - and must agree upon the discovery of such truths in my later years. "Such is life - a dream - a fleeting moment in time that lasts in the heart but a second, but in the mind forever." - indeed such words speak truth. One must dream to live, dream to survive, one must dream to realize; no matter in vain or for everlasting results!