Of Fat, Stupid Sycophants

I recall a conversation I had with my brother at a Chinese restaurant that used to be down the street. It was quite a long time ago; I was 17 and he was 20. We were talking about my plans to take a bus to Chicago for the 1990 Socialist Party National Convention. That Chinese Restaurant, The Kalok, is long gone now, but I can still remember that my favorite dish was the 11B. I'm not sure what it was, except that it was greasy and delicious. That conversation sometimes comes back to me at the strangest moments, like in the middle of the night or when I'm making a pot of coffee. It's so random. Why do I keep thinking of it?

It must be because I had an adventure ahead of me, albeit an odd one. To travel by bus for days to an awful motel with the misleading name, "Heart of Chicago Motel." Chicago has many hearts, and this place was near none of them. And after settling in, to act as the sole attending Socialist Party of Massachusetts Delegate, and to speak as the chair of the Health Care Work Group. And along the way meet some amazing activists and eccentric intellectuals. Granted, it's not the sort of dream that many would share, but it really appealed to me.

And I did it. To Chicago, and to Milwaukee a couple of years later, and to New York for the Socialist Scholar's Conference. I also went to UMass Boston and studied physical anthropology and did damn well. There were even a couple of interesting jobs along the way. Now I'm not that anymore, I'm this, whatever this is. And there was nothing great about me back then, to say the least, but I managed to do more than just function.

The memory of that conversation keeps popping up because I would give anything to have that sense of ability and normalcy again. I've never thought myself exceptional, and I'm not romanticizing my past. But as I muddle through another brutal bout of depression I find myself wondering what it must be like to feel normal. Or at least roughly on par with everyone else. Right now, I see myself as a pathetic villain trying to move unseen through the days on my way towards a merciful death. Every day I get a little closer, and my highest hopes center around death at least not hurting.

Surely, I didn't always go through life like this, right? I think it's true that I didn't. And my memory of lunch with my brother that day clearly reveals that fact to me. I may not have thought I was going to be president or write the Great American novel, but I did at one time envision someone different than the fat, stupid sycophant that is writing this 'blog.

Cheers!