The Oppositional Male

I dreamt of high school last night. Not the usual blanched nakedness at photo time dreams, not the missing test day because of nigh extraordinary circumstances dreams, not even the surely Freudian duplicate selves, or Foucauldian power displacement (or should I say reenactment?) dreams. No, these dreams stung with a visceral awareness that even while in their midst, some part of my conscious, or subconscious--or both--seemed hell bent on mandating that my waking self remembered not only the images, but the root pinpricks of despair that ran like a whacked-out Wagner score in the background.

I hated high school, but until recently, I can't be sure why. My mother tells me that most people did; that for some, that time of life is just meant to hurt. Two of my brothers remember their time in fashionista like awe, the wash of their success in athletics and conquests (I mean that) of women almost brittle memories now, as the weight of real life hunkers down upon them.

My dreams of last night would have me remember old jealousies and arguments, injuries that speak with a juvenile lisp, things that should be healed, forgotten or dismissed due to proximity, or by the mere fact that they happened in that time, in that place, in that fucked-up dimension. Apparently I carry around an assortment of grievances. It is humbling and embarrassing to admit--not because I distrust my dreams, or believe merely in their contextualized randomness of meaning. I admit to teaspoons of shame because I still am unable to catch on, to readily understand what it is I am supposed to do. There is too much talk of forgiveness. There is that word "closure," which to me seems as useful as words like "sin" and "wrong." There is a message here. I know it. I can feel it, and it leaves me bereft.