We had just gotten home on Saturday, when two black women
walked up to the kitchen door. Attractive, smiling, there was an openness about
them that made me rethink my original dismissive appraisal: Jehovah’s Witnesses.
As I corralled the dogs, the older of the two said to
Stanley, “Hi. We used to live here. We were hoping we could come in and see the
“Oh,” Stanley cried, “You’re Moodys!”
They seemed surprised we knew who they were. I guess they
don’t know they are practically legendary. In fact, nine years after we bought
it, our house is still referred to as
“The Moody House.” We’d, of course, heard about the Moodys before. A local
realtor, who spoke highly of the family, once told us that when her own
daughters had held a party which her mother chaperoned, her mother had called
her in a panic and whispered there’s a black kid dancing in the garage with the
girls!” Her response? “That’s not a black kid, that’s Moody!”
We took them—they turned out to be Mr. Moody’s daughter a…
I am Prometheus. Prometheus. Say it slowly,
roll the letters around in your mouth. Prometheus.
It is not my real name but it is name most fitting for me. Prometheus, the
creator of mankind and its greatest benefactor, chained to a rock, his liver
eaten daily by an eagle, in eternal damnation for stealing fire and gifting it
to mankind. Yes, there are definite similarities between us.
I am Prometheus, and this is my story. Except it’s not my story. I wish it was, but I am
not unique or special. This is the story of untold millions of hapless chaps
and chicklets caught up in the grinding gears of the corporate machine.
This is a faux memoir told episodically. You will be
inclined, at times, to laugh at us, and cry for us. Do not hold back either
impulse. That is the point of sharing this story—to remind us that life is
nothing but a series of small comedies and tragedies. What is important is what
we take away from each occurrence, what we learn from each calamity and joy.
What will be…
I love my Dad.
That’s probably not an unusual statement. But when it’s a
gay son talking, there is often some history and work that went into making
that a true statement.
I love my dad. I saw him two weeks ago when I drove up to
visit. I hadn’t seen him in about a year and I realized how much I missed him.
When I was younger, my relationship with my dad was…strained. I think part of it was my own
resistance to him, thinking he didn’t like the idea that I was gay. So for some
years in there, I kept my distance. That changed one rainy Saturday morning in 1988 when I was racing to work outside of Washington, D.C. I was doing 80 when a car
merged onto the highway in front of me. I would guess it was going about 40
miles an hour. I slammed on the brakes. I was going so fast and the other car
was going so slow, it actually looked like the other car was moving backwards
towards me. I’d decreased speed to about 60 at the moment of impact. My car
started spinning and as it started to flip an…