Takes a Village, #4

Boom fairly early on,
without eye make-up.

Maybe a year after our Mongolian exchange student had gone back to his country, the exchange program people called again. They had a student from Thailand who had been placed in Mississippi. A few weeks after starting high school there, he had "come out."

Bad move, kid. The school and his host family "just didn't think they could keep him safe." Well, it was clear he shouldn't stay there then. The program asked us to take him for the interim while they found a permanent host home. But within a week of his arrival, we told them to consider him permanently placed.

And so Thanapol Ekatanachokul, a.k.a. "Boom," would be with us for the year. Mariah, 8, was still here with us; Asa was 6 or 7; and Boom was 16. With the two mommies, we had a full house.

Asa, Thanapol, Mariah

Boom had one of the more... enthusiastic personalities I have ever come across on the planet. Boom would cook, Boom would help clean, Boom would pull the kids around on a sled until I made them all stop. He became one of the most popular kids at his city high school in a matter of months. Yet, he was never loud or obnoxious or exhausting to be with. I don't think I could come up with a single bad thing to say about Boom. I wish he could have stayed forever. So did everyone else in the family. And a little bit, so did Boom.

Boom fairly late on,
in eye make-up.

He couldn't, though, and just as well. Boom was ready for the world. He had been just a boy when he came to us; he was a young gay man when he moved on.

Boom learned about and experimented with his gay identity while he was here. He became very sophisticated about such matters, but stayed true to his Buddhist faith. He did not drink, do drugs, or smoke--nor did he have sex while he was here. How do I know this? Because Boom told me and I have no doubt that he was honest and sincere.

Boom doesn't stay in touch with us. It doesn't surprise me. I'm sure his life is full and he is very busy with it, bringing light to any dark corner he finds. I think that someday we'll hear from Boom again. We were the first gay people to nurture him and he turned out marvelously.

Overheard on the Phone:

"I've been on police 'ride-alongs' in three different cities," I was telling a friend.

"'Ride-alongs,' she said. "Is that a euphemism?"

Who Doesn't Love SkyMall!

Hey, don't fall.

Imagine having a party where the men dress in tuxedos. People chat, with drinks in hand, on the veranda. (See background.)  Then imagine having two of the men get into human hamster balls. Somehow I doubt that would be as much fun as it seems here.

Some details of note:
•  the price (but you do get two human hamster balls)
•  the "helper" who tops off your bubble (laughing like a jackal all the while)
•  the reassuring fact that your bubble zips closed from the inside (please god, from the inside, god)
•  the weight capacity of 300 lbs (I'd like to see that; or, maybe not) and
•  my favorite line: "Not for use on or near water" (please god, no, not on or near water)

Remember When? No.

They won't tell stories. None of them ever lapses into, Remember when Lucy did this? When Bobby did that? 

I'll start with the nine girls, see if I can name them:  Ethel, Lucille, Mildred, Erma Irene, Eileen, Nellie Lou, Margaret, Mary Belle (my mother), and Carol Sue. And the three boys, that's easy:  Bill, Donald, and Bobby.

This is the one photo
I have of my grandma.

My grandma raised all twelve kids, working as a psychiatric aide in a series of "State Schools" (mental institutions) in Ohio from the 1920s to the 1970s. (Not pretty work.)

My grandfather, part-Cherokee and part coal miner, came around often enough and just long enough to get my grandma pregnant those twelve and probably more times. I heard 16. 

After the youngest, Carol Sue, was born in the 1940s, no one heard from my grandfather again until 1968. I forget why he came, but I met him. There were dozens of us cousins--literally dozens--running around and he didn't know any of us. How could he? He didn't know his daughters until they told him their names. Even then, did he know them?

My Grandma Myrtle was there the day he showed up, too. She'd never had much to say for or about him, and on that day she had absolutely nothing to say to him. But then she wasn't one to pitch a fit. 

The three boys didn't speak to him either. They kept a neutral countenance although I remember thinking that my Uncle Don's face looked very dark that day, like it was all closed in on itself.

There are almost no photos of my mother's family until well into the 1960s. Of course with twelve children, my grandma couldn't afford to keep them fed, let alone develop pictures from the camera she didn't own. I think my mother had one or two pictures, one where she was combing out my Grandma's hair, and--like my hair--it stood straight out on all sides of her head. I should try to find those pictures.

So I understand why there are no family pictures; I'm disappointed that there are no stories. Not one of my aunts and uncles brings out an anecdote from the past to share, to tease about, to lament, or to mourn. Are the memories so consistently terrible? Does a deep, dark cloud cover their childhood? Others tell stories about horrifying childhoods in times of poverty and war. Why are my many relatives afraid to stir it up? Is it to protect themselves, or one another? I'm afraid to stir it up, too, but I want to hear their stories. I want to know them.