Back in the innocent days of 1997, I was walking to wherever, as I crossed a bridge over the river, I saw a young man, a homeless man. What was different, I knew this person. I never talked to him, but I watched him being ruthlessly bullied in high school. Far worse then I was. It was the same two partners, same two that would bully me, so I had an idea what he was going through, but he wasn’t me. He was especially noticeable with his bright, fiery red hair. Something must not have been right at home because he had slightly odd mannerism, and extremely quiet. I can remember seeing him walking home with the two partners mercilessly harassing him.

I thought a lot about the classmate in school. By high school, things changed for me and I wasn’t the target I once was, but I could see this kid was taking the brunt of what once was directed towards me. I can remember watching all this, wishing I could do something, anything to stop it. Of course, all I did was acknowledge within myself the pain and hurt this young man was going through, while matching it to the pain and hurt experienced far too much by me. It really was hard on me watching this happening, remembering it happening to me, and being unable to do anything about it.

By the time 1997 had come along, I had served and returned from the Army. I had a little more of a worldly experience by then, made it to several countries. This guy, that didn’t happen. He went from house to homeless.

For the first time, I talked to him. I don’t recall any of the words, but none of them mattered, the picture was the memory that mattered. I just remember talking to him. He didn’t make it out of San Jose, he didn’t make it into another home. He just became homeless. I remember knowing he was smarter and better then what his circumstances would suggest, but more then anything else, I recognized this was the price of bullying. I can remember he didn’t deserve that, he was a human, and good human, and he deserved more then being forgotten.

That young man was never forgotten by me. I never forget the guilt of being too weak to stand up for him. I have every reason to believe that the issues were far greater then the partnered bullies, and probably bullied by people much closer to him, but it still hurts knowing I couldn’t do something but watch and acknowledge.

That was in 1997, he was an outlier. This is 2020. Now I see these hurt people on the streets that have made it further in life then him, or even me, but they are now living in tent cities because there are so many bullied by our American Capitalism, that we treasure like a religion.

It was hard seeing that single person left behind, now I see communities of persons left behind. That guy didn’t have time to make the wrong decisions, he didn’t deserve what he was experiencing. The vast majority of today’s homeless did exist as productive citizens. They did have success, to often, more then me. They did do what they were told they should do, but now they are in the same place. None of them deserve what they are experiencing either, and it is still overwhelmingly painful knowing that these people deserve so much more, they have worked so much harder then me, but there still is nothing I can do but acknowledge and listen.

So I cry. So I cry, a lot.

– Duckin’ Kev

I get done with my song. Some song, a Billy Joel song seems to add up, if foreshadowing were to mean anything. I come sit down, next to a friend, and he starts talking about singing anything with perfect pitch, or whatever, I really don’t know. All I know is I heard the word “perfect”. At that point my ears tuned him out, and I have retreating back into my mind to think of important things, like, how hard will it be to mount a horizontal radial engine to a small pickup truck. I mean, the thing is, horizontal means the flywheel, what connects to the transmission is going to face straight down. This means…

Sorry, sorry, as I said, important things. Back to the story. Lecture, I shall call it what it is, this is a lecture.

Here’s the thing. When you tell me you can sing perfectly, or do anything perfectly but focusing on karaoke here, you no longer need me to be part of the conversation. You have already decided what my reaction, review, or suggestions I may have. “Whoa, amazing.” “Truly you are the most amazing singer I have heard yet. You just nailed every note.” “You shouldn’t change a thing, you are perfect the way you are.” At that point, I am just glorified audience that no longer wants to be there.

I’m not on the stage to sing perfectly. Most of what I sing, are songs I barely know or rarely listen too, I think by unconscious design to hide my feelings of inadequacy so I don’t have to feel pressured to really know a song. One day I stepped out of boundaries, and got my horrendous voice up there to sing. What amazed me was the sound of my voice, and hearing myself controlling my voice. I don’t have real good vocal control, and so when I am up there, it about the amazement, the challenge of controlling the sounds coming out of my mouth. It is about the magnificent feelings I feel as I’m listening to myself sing, yet still able to be in my own mind and thinking about what is happening, like a self-feeding loop. It isn’t about singing, performing, to show how awesome I am. As a bonus, it turns out I have a much better voice then I ever knew, and met some most important and fun friends in the process.

So when I hear somebody self-describe themselves as perfect, that person has just shat on every reason I am up there to sing.

And then he says he thinks he’ll sing “Just a Woman”. He had no reason to know, but that stung. That is a majorly important song to me, and then to have to be shown the “perfect” version, that really would have tainted that song for me. I really don’t care if anybody sings “my song”, I don’t have any “my song”, I only that song was going to be used to show me up. Fortunately, we left before he had a chance to.

Fuck perfect

– Duckin’ Kev

It was a nice day at the laundromat. I had the place to myself, until near the end of drying. As I am folding, in walk a father and his child. She wanted to go somewhere else because I was there. He said, “This place is good. It is only one person, he’s fine.” I found that odd, but figured she was a shy girl.

He started loading clothes, and apparently the machine took his money. He wasn’t happy. He angrily call the phone number listed should there be an issue, and got more upset when the person wasn’t going to rush over to refund his $2.00.

Before he called, he asked me which washer worked and which didn’t. I replied I knew the one I used works. He fumed, made his call, and then again asked me which ones worked and which ones didn’t. Again I replied, I knew the one I just used works. He then started going around trying to ruin other machines in retaliation. As he got to my row, again he asks, “Which machines work, and which don’t.”

This time I replied, “No, I’m not going tell you.
“Uh, what? Why not?”
“Because you have asked three times, I already answered you twice, clearly you don’t care about the answer.”
“I’ve had bad day, don’t make it worse,” he whined at me.
“Oh, so because you had a bad fucking day, that makes it okay for you to try to ruin other people’s day?”
“Don’t swear in front of my daughter.”
“Fuck you, I’ll swear if I fucking want.”
“I’ll kick your ass.”
“Oh, so you are telling me that swearing in front of your daughter is worse then threatening to kick a perfect stranger’s ass?”

He must have agreed, because he suddenly sent her scurrying behind the washing machines. He then took off his shirt because he was getting serious about threatening me. I am still just folding clothes. He comes up to my side, since he couldn’t get in my face, there was a table and machines in the way, and I looked over and asked, “Do you really think I am afraid of you?”

He fumed off. I packed my laundry, turned my back, and walked out. I resisted leaving a parting comment because in the end, I figured he would take it out on his daughter.

While all that was happening, I am watching his daughter wearing a look of amazement. I suddenly realized why she didn’t want anybody around when they did laundry, it was her father. This may have been the first time she had seen somebody non-violently stand-up to her dad and win with logic.

This also made me realize a new level of skill I acquired somehow. I don’t think there is a skill that has brought so many tears. In my youth, I would have never understood the pain of being powerful, or how much such an internal strength would hurt me. I could have never understood the terror of being able to stand-up.

– Duckin’ Kev