A Few Thoughts about Alcohol

This will probably be the most personal thing that I write on this page. And to begin with my own feelings on the matter seems dangerous. But, I am just doing this to expose my thoughts and feelings, anyway, so why should I hold back?

And to begin with something deceptively grim, I must start with a funeral.

A few years ago, I received a phone call from my mother. She sounded very quiet over the phone and I was worried. She seemed very hesitant to tell me why she called.

'Your uncle passed away.'

I knew which uncle she was referring to; the only one that really mattered to me. He was officially my godfather and also the reason why my family was able to travel to Canada as immigrants from the Caribbean. We were pretty much one family when I was a child, and the passing of years did nothing to pull us apart...until that phone call.

I remember very little about the call itself. What I do recall is going to my kitchen, opening a cabinet, finding a bottle of Appleton, and taking a very long pull.

I am not sure why I had the bottle there. A part of me had this whole West Indian thing about how it is not a real home without a bottle of rum. Every home we visited as a child had liquor, beer, booze, whatever you wanted to call it, and rum was the key drink. Maybe there was a part of me that realized I would need it someday, although I did not really entertain. And I was right. I did need it.

But I should have saved it for the actual funeral.

*

Later, there was a message from my godmother and the rest of the family informing me (not asking me) that I would be giving a reading of a prayer (it was sent by text and I had most of it memorized before the ceremony). When I returned home, I did not take much time discussing my feelings with anyone. I was looking forward to seeing our community at the event. So many faces from the past were there; so many people I loved were in one church, one space.

And then, I got angry.

I had the opportunity to come in early and sit with the body, which I refused to do (I wanted to remember a living man, not a corpse), and I knew that it was going to be a Catholic rite. And I knew that we were all playing a terrible game. I was also - unknown to me - going to be the first speaker. I tried to concentrate on the words in front of me and in my head, but I made the mistake at looking at his family. There was a ceremony with all of the different hymns and prayers listed, but the temptation to break with it was great. And I did nothing, except go back to my pew, observe the rest of the service, and sigh.

*

Now, you might be wondering what any of this has to do with my thoughts about alcohol, besides the mention of the Appleton.

In my family, alcohol was nothing to fear or worry over. My mother and the women in my community would prepare desserts laced with rum, men would be drinking as they played dominoes over long weekends at the park, and I was give my first taste of beer at the age of eight. The godfather I mentioned was the one who let me try it. No one else seemed to make much of it.

Now, I do wonder if this was a good or bad thing. I never worried about being addicted to it as a drug. I had the opportunity to try more than just that first sip without any serious problems (brandy was the second drink that must have passed my lips as a child; a very interesting form of medicine for some people in our community). As a teenager, all of my stupidities and embarrassments were usually quite sober (the idea of getting drunk and causing a disturbance just seemed such a useless cliché that I had no reason to follow it). The only time I truly let myself get drunk was when I worked overseas and had a very long night of rum-sampling at a bar that specialized in that poison (still have no idea how I got home).

Yes, poison...

One thing I always noticed was how sad and down everyone was once the initial high dropped. Things were great over games of dominoes and the regular BS-ing that went on at get-togethers. But once that glass was drained, or that bottle was empty, it looked like many of my relatives had been through an accident. Or they were forced to face certain demons that even the booze could not keep hidden.

And the worst of them all? That beloved godfather.

He was never violent, at least not with me. His thing was to get quite weepy and remind me of how much he loved my father (a man who did not drink but passed away when I was ten from a very bad heart). This was followed by hugs, tears and embarrassing moments that I really wanted to forget (too many eyewitnesses for that).

So, what is the final lesson here?

I think that the thing I learned was that we are all responsible for our vices. I have heard people I respected say that all should be forgiven if someone was out of their head because of the idiot oil they imbibed. I still disagree. If I ran over someone with my car because I was three sheets to the wind, I would be culpable according to a court of law. Same if I beat someone up, slapped my kids or did any other stupid action under the influence.

And I think that I had a big advantage from a young age. Having that first sip and noticing how all my relatives behaved on the sauce was a great lesson. That may also explain why I never really took up with cigarettes, either (I had my first one when I was eight; another story for another time).

I still feel a sympathy for drinkers, but I think that life is to be lived, not just endured. A drink is what you make of it and it can be a good servant or a terrible master.

Now, pass the bottle...

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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