Goldenchild

“Do you wonder where the self resides? Is it in your head or between your sides, and who will be the one who will decide its true location?”

-Andrew Bird, “Dark Matter”

Foreword

Essentially, I wrote this story as a means to an end. I wanted a vehicle through which to explore, and eventually question everything I had been taught to believe about humanity’s origins, the meaning of life, the universe and everything. Where did we come from? How did the universe begin? Did someone or some thing create the universe? Is the universe a living, ever-changing, omnipotent Q-like entity? How does a layman make sense of all this? And the penultimate of all existential questions: why are we here and what is my purpose?

I wanted to be that kick-ass civilian Scully-type woman on a mission to turn my own perceptions of reality upside down. So it began. Research. Documentaries, articles, interviews, YouTube-you name it, I have seen it or read it. I may need glasses when all this is said and done.

I also wanted to allow my childhood sci-fi heroes to influence my own writing. Yeah, so it’s about more than just finding the ultimate answers to the ultimate questions. It’s about my intrinsic need to tip my hat to the greatest writer and cultivator of “plausible” science fiction who ever lived and who still makes me laugh to this day: Isaac Asimov. Isaac Asimov can be found in almost every single index of the Dewey Decimal System. He was nothing less than a complete genius, and he’s the man who gave us the Foundation series and more widely recognized (thanks to Will Smith) “I, Robot”. Asimov’s short story and later more expanded novel, Nightfall, definitely inspired me as a child. So did Tolkien, but that’s a whole other thing entirely. There were terribly low-budget movie adaptations of Nightfall, but I could never muster enough courage to endure that type of agony.

I wanted to finally see characters, protagonists, and people from my life played onscreen. I never got what I wanted, so here I am. Closest ever was Janeway and “Star Trek: Voyager”. Everyone seemed to hate it, but it was on for 7 seasons, and now it’s the most re-watched series on Netflix. I somehow could relate to those poor lost bastards. But I wanted to see me. In so doing, perhaps I might find meaning and really begin happily connecting again. Maybe then I’d be truly happy. I'd finally have something to say. People would listen. People would see. And maybe, just maybe, I could begin a long-needed dialogue.

So, what are goldenchild and starsweeper? Which one should you read first? Well, that depends. They are companions. There is no first, then second. No series. Unless there is enough original substance to sustain some type of spin-off. They can be read in any order.

Essentially, these are two pieces of science fiction (and hopefully film as well) that will tell you everything you need to know about me, and I pray (oh, the irony) that you might possibly discover yourself in me, and in my characters. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Judy Garland would be so pleased. Let’s do it for Judy. She was the best, wasn’t she?

Motifs of science fiction? Yes. We have doppelgängers, aliens, time travel, more aliens, cool gadgets, existential crises, and yes, perhaps even a love story of sorts. Spoiler alert: Rhys and Syhr are the same person. To love oneself, one must know one’s self. And only then, once one has come to know and love oneself—only then may we then be so fortunate and rich of spirit as to truly love another.

-K. R. King

Chapter 1

“Buck-a-nan”

There's Jonny, standing at the front of the room giving his book report on some Tom Clancy novel, but no one's listening. Why bother?

When suddenly…!

“…when suddenly, Buck-a-nan jumps out and…”

From my stupor, I perk.

I raise my hand.

“I’m sorry, what was his name?”

“Buck-a-nan.”

Wow. This guy right here. The character’s name is Buchanan. It’s pronounced “byoo-can-an”.

“Ah, gotcha. Definitely want to know for when I’m looking for this book later.”

Mrs. M is not amused. She’s caught on, but says nothing. She peers over her thin, frameless chained spectacles with her beady, black eyes. She always looks at me like she knows something about me even I don’t know, and so I cringe.

“So anyway, then Buck-a-nan decides to…”

Fuck. my. life. Someone get the hook!

Who the fuck didn’t tell this kid that he has been saying his favorite action hero’s name incorrectly his whole fucking life? Which one of you asshole parents was it? Who pissed in your Cheerios as a kid and fucked you up so you’d let your kid embarrass himself in front of his 9th grade Honors English Language Arts class. Yeah, HONORS. The “smart” kids.

Welcome to Crown Town, baby.

Chapter 2

“Crown Town”

Corona, California is where all the elusive middle class people from Orange County disappeared to and eventually tried to annex away from Riverside. It sits off the 91 and 15 freeways in Southern California’s Inland Empire. The most dangerous freeways with the worst drivers reside here. My dad commuted from Perris (yes, the city where they found 13 tortured, beaten, neurologically impaired and severely malnourished children, as well as adult between the ages of 2 and 29 being held against their will by their own parents) to Anaheim. He drove the city bus as a “coach operator” and Teamster for over 20 years before moving into Radio as a dispatch supervisor.

Chapter 3

"Sisters, Sisters"

My older sister, we’ll just call her Nicole (I know she just loves her middle name), and I? Yeah it’s a long, sordid tale of angst and betrayal…so where do I begin?

Let’s actually start at the beginning here and say this: my sister is a talented photographer and artist. She also has great taste in music, makeup and movies. Apart from that, we’re like the sun and moon: completely opposite.

Since one of the main reasons for even writing this is to investigate questions of morality and such, I’ve decided to go ahead and tell you about something that many people in my family would rather I didn’t discuss.

I am 16 and my sister is 18.

It’s a Friday night.

We’d had our fair share of arguments, but very rarely ever engaged in direct physical combat with one another (except that one time she kicked the shit out of me and then said I tried to choke her to death, but that’s an entirely different story and I can barely remember that one—THIS one is much more vivid so I’m going with this one for now).

I promised you angst, so here it is…in all its angsty glory…the FIGHT. As it was documented and later published on FictionPress.com, straight from the battlefield:

Love, Mom (2007)

By

K. R. King

It has been said that there are three key pieces in developing effective communication in human relationships: kindness, honesty, and necessity. If you cannot s without meeting these three prerequisites, it's probably most wise not to open your mouth at all, especially if you find yourself amidst the brewing of a storm (n would consider this storm to be a fight).

I suppose I have learned this lesson the hard way, as do most of us in life. It may seem like such a simple guideline for tact, which in turn yields effective comm but in reality it is a major feat to accomplish.

Honestly, and no pun intended there, it's always for the best if you tell the truth because lying will more than likely land you in some type of trouble or another later. I was taught that if I don't have anything nice to say, then I shouldn't say anything at all. Nowadays, I'm being told that I can say anything I like as long a say is kind, honest, and necessary. This was instructed to me in youth group one fall Wednesday evening and as I sat there, I began to realize that not everyone kindness. Too often is this concept misconstrued for manipulation; tragic, isn't it? You say one thing too directly, too forwardly, and though it be honest and its in out of kindness, it can be wildly misunderstood and shut down.

How can you win?

I was once asked to write an essay on one singular event that changed my life, one thing that taught me a very important lesson. Even though I knew I was writing about something extremely personal, I felt it was necessary. I wrote the essay, unaware of the damage I was about to do in re my tenth grade English class, and turned it in. My sister somehow found out that I had done this and reported it directly to our mother, who in turn took it upon herself to rage over me and then ignore me for Where were those three key pieces of effective communication then? She told me I had betrayed her. I had divulged 'family business' to complete strangers. What I had really done was embarrassed her. But how would she ever calm down enough to listen to me? She was much too embarrassed, and angry. Anger is and, so always been my mother's closest companion. She continued to shout at me and tell me how I had betrayed her.

All I could do was cry. She never even read my knew was that I wrote an essay about a time when she nearly lost her life because of a mistake; a time when she put the lives of not only herself, but the lives daughters as well, in jeopardy. I tried, oh how I tried to explain that the essay was not all that explicit or detailed, that it simply outlined the event, and that I h making her look like a terrible person, let alone a neglectful mother. I was simply trying to reach out to my peers and warn them. In my essay, I had thanked my mother for making this mistake.

It was not my intention to be condescending or sarcastic. I sincerely thanked my mother. Because of the mistake she made, I learned something about l had to tell my peers of this lesson, to help them, possibly to save lives. But she would not listen. She had already made up her mind that all of this was my fault. All she kept saying was how it was apparent that I had no regard for her feelings and how wrong it was of me to have written such an essay in the first place. W choose that incident, she asked. Why didn't I choose some other event? Again, I tried to explain that there had been no other event in the span of my life so far learned so much. She ignored me.

I cried and cried.

My father tried to defend me, but she ignored him too.

All I kept thinking was how Bethany had written an essay about the same incident once before and how unfair my mother was being; how she hadn't been so unfair to my sister as she was with me at this moment.

I don't understand what changed. When she said 'I love you', I always believed she meant it. Until now. When I think of my mother, I see nothing in my mind. She is a hollow memory; an echo of the abyss of the love she always said was kept for me inside her heart special. She probably can't see me either anymore.

My page in the book of my mother's life is empty--erased, forgotten. How could my mother let this happen? How could she not love me anymore? Is it possible that the woman whom I called my mother could ever stop loving me? To this day, I am uncertain. To this day, I cry at the mere thought of her hatred for me. How did things get so far from reality, so carried away that she would disown me? What did I do that was so terrible, so monstrous...?

She says I did it again. She says I have no regard for her feelings, that she can no longer trust me to keep the family business in the family. Therefore, I am no a member of the family. Her family. My family. What family?

I have no one now.

All I remember is:

I walked in the door one Friday afternoon to see my sister's scowling face stooped over a half-eaten mini pizza. My mini pizza. Slightly annoyed, I told her believe she ate my food. I decided to ignore it and simply find something else to eat. She decided not to ignore what was bothering her, though, and somehow she became angry at me (rather she was angry about something else and taking it out on me was normal). Of course, my sister is the type of person who will find the smallest, most trivial problem and blow it out of proportion, say a lot of nasty, vicious things and then act like nothing happened two weeks later. She is the kind of person who can only see life through her own eyes and no one else's.

This time, I was not going to let her intimidate me, I was not going to let her win this argument. I went about my own busin to ask why she was so upset. She replied that she was pissed off because her boss was cutting her hours back at work and in turn, these new hours were interfering with her school schedule. She added that she had plenty enough to worry about without having to come home to find me stealing her things. I asked what she meant by that specifically, and she retorted that she was going to have to buy a new bottle of Bioré facial cleanser because I had used it all up. Now, it is true that I used a certain amount of this Bioré, but there were two explanations, the first being that I must have misunderstood and thought that our f the bottle (valued at $6.00 plus tax) for the two of us to share; the second explanation was that I simply didn't think she would mind if I tried it out.

Evidently, I the latter and my sister, being who she is and was at the time, simply refused to hear about the former. Neither explanation was going to suffice for her, so I off bottle as soon as I got paid. Again, this was not going to allay her fury. In fact, she launched herself from the sofa and confronted me in the kitchen when I told was such a big deal and she had no reason to be so angry.

She replied that she was more than angry, she was pissed off.

I'm not sure I see how being pissed off can be worse than being angry, but according to my sister, it's quite possible.

Anyhow, I continued on about the business of searching the freezer for a bit of something to eat while she insisted on screaming and cussing me out over this b Finally, I told her I was not going to listen to her if she was going to continue to make such a fuss over a bottle of facial cleanser. She ignored me. Then, when she realized I had taken to ignoring her, she threatened to destroy my things so that I could "see how it feels when people mess with your shit" and went about to act on her prom everything off of my bedroom walls, ripped my retro twentieth century record-player stereo out of its socket and threw it to the floor, cleared my dresser, flung all over the place, and strew everything everywhere imaginable until she was satisfied at her handiwork.

I went into my room during all of this commotion and warned her if she broke anything, she was going to replace it. She refused. Seeing that she was not going to cooperate, I asked her to leave my room because I wasn't going bullshit. Again, she refused. So, out of frustration and desperation to be left alone, I ran into her bedroom and pushed one of the stereo speakers to the floor. S almost immediately and began to claw and scratch at me. I pushed her back into the hallway and this scuffle continued until I reach the threshold of my bedroom.

We broke apart, huffing and puffing madly. She was so angry by this point, mainly because I wasn't listening to anything she was saying, that she refused to budge an inch. All I wanted was to be able to close my bedroom door and be done with the whole situation. I didn't want to listen to her bitc something so trivial. All the time, she waved the remote control about in my face and block my doorway, so I threatened to push her if she didn't back up. She r so I kept to my threat and gave a neat little shove so she would back off and so I could close my bedroom door. As soon as I dropped my arms, she came down face with the remote control two or three times---hard. She hit me so hard, so as to shut me up so I would listen to her bitching, that I began to bleed. Blood h over the place, namely on the walls and a few posters; also the floor and the fan, and by this time, I had fallen onto my bed in tears with my hand over my face blood, but there was too much and I was too distraught.

We both panicked.

She knew she had gone too far because there was blood spattering and gushing now. I couldn't see out of my right eye for a while, blood streamed all over my shirt, hands and hair. I screamed and shouted for her to leave me alone. She kept trying to get me to let her help me, but I felt she had done enough already. I didn't want her to touch leave the apartment.

I tried to leave and again, but she continued to get in my way.

I threatened to jump the patio fence, even though we both knew I couldn't see well enough nor was I agile enough to make it over successfully and without hurting myself. Plus, I wanted to leave to get away from her and also to get help from someone who really cared. She came at me and that's when I bolted for the front door. I made i apartment and ran down the pathway, passing several kids who had been playing outside and who saw the blood all over my face, neck, arms, and hair, and who did nothing but gawk as I went by, the ball bouncing off into a nearby bush.

I tried to go over to the school, for we lived just across the street, but I never made it through the gate as I had become weak and the adrenal down. Instead, I collapsed in the bathroom that was situated just behind the pool. The blood just kept coming out, all over the bathroom floor, the sink...my face Everywhere. I don't think I have ever bled so much in my entire life. Fear coursed through me as I tried feebly to wash the blood away to assess the damage, but the task proved to be futile.

I remained sprawled across the floor for several minutes in a strange kind of stupor. I still could not see clearly out of my right eye. Finally, I summoned enough strength to stand and return to the apartment, where my sister was on the phone with someone, in tears. I thought she was talking perhaps our mother even, but I was wrong. I collapsed in the hallway after screaming at her to let me use the phone to call the cops. She soon left the apartment, chucking the phone receiver at me as she went by. On the other end of the line was her boyfriend, who asked what had happened.

I explained the incident as best as I could and then asked where she was going. Was she going to get help? No, he told me, she was going to a house to snort coke and if it was the last time I ever saw my sister alive ag I burst into tears all over again, screamed into the receiver that it wasn't my fault, and hung up on him. I tried to call my dad and leave a message, but I'm sure make out was that I was bleeding from my head and that I needed him to come home right away. I tried to call my mom. Mom. Surely she would come over to was already in Corona. Dad was in Garden Grove, an hour and a half drive at the least. Mom could come. Mom would come. I called her. She said she'd call me

I waited, my eyelids drawing together as I fought fatigue to stay awake for a phone call from my mother telling me she was on her way. That phone call never c grandmother called me.

She told me Dad was on his way from work and that he had asked her to call me, to keep me on the line until he arrived. Soon, she hun because I told her I was waiting for Mom, that Mom was going to come and be with me until Dad got home. I laid on the floor, drifting in and out of consciousness rang, but I wasn't going to answer it. It was Grandma.

The phone rang. It was Mom.

She informed me that it was late and that she was putting the baby (my little half-sister) to bed. All I got from this was that she was coming, even though it wa what she was saying that she wasn't. Mom was going to come and sit with me, be with me—at least until Dad got home.

But Mom never came.

I stayed on the floor in the hallway of my father's apartment for nearly two hours, alone and frightened, half-asleep, half-awake. Alone. Mom never came. My sis knew, was off somewhere to commit suicide and her boyfriend...probably everyone else with him...was going to blame me for it. All I knew was that I was alone still bleeding, and falling asleep.

And that Mom never came.

I blinked my eyes to see the figure of my father standing over me; I thought he was lying next to me, so when I saw him there, my heartbeat raced. I thought attack, but he stirred to see if I was conscious. The blood had dried all over my body.

When my father found me, I had somehow managed to crawl my way over get something frozen for my head, which was swollen and tender all over (but mainly above my right eye and my right temporal lobe), and partially slumped my wall outside my bedroom, still in the hallway. Dad helped me into a chair and began to wash my face clean of all the blood so that he could properly view the inj was all he found, a clean two-inch cut over my right eyebrow. It was deep nonetheless, and I was in an inexorable amount of pain. I was in a trance of sorts as

My sister returned soon afterward, with her boyfriend.

Dad didn't want her in the house until she and I had both settled down and were willing to work things out. She started to blame me. Dad instructed my sister's bring her back to the apartment for the rest of the weekend, at the least. He promised he would obey my father. I wanted to file a report with the police against said I should at least wait until I was coherent enough to answer their questions, etc.

I fell asleep.

At about three-thirty in the morning, Dad came into my room and informed me that my sister's boyfriend had snuck her back into her bedroom via the window going to call the police. He then said that if he did so, they would want to talk to me. He asked if I was able to talk to them if they came right then and I said no that he would contact the police in the morning, when I was better rested.

I woke up about eleven-thirty the following morning and expected to hear the low grumbling of male voices in the living room, all discussing what had happened night. Instead, my little half-sister came in to fetch me. Mom was there.

I made my way slowly and with much focused effort into the living room and found my mother sitting on the black sofa beside my father. Instantly, I went to them to ask why she had not come when she knew I was hurt, but when I saw the expression on her face and the anger in her eyes, I backed away from the hug. She was upset with me. She was blaming me.

I took a seat at the dining room table and listened to what my mother had to say about everything. The sum of her visit consisted of a detailed analysis of how it been handled incorrectly by everyone involved and a prescription of how it should be handled from her perspective. I attempted to form coherent sentences in o what had happened and defend what I had done. I tried to simply tell her what happened, but she refused to listen.

She shut me down and went on.

She went about listing all of the things I had done to provoke my sister's behaviour and then how I was in the wrong. She persisted in blaming me for my sister' and then said that if she quit school or was fired from her job, it would be my fault. Of course, I again tried to defend myself and to rebuke such spiteful statements, such attacks on my character. I thought I had handled the incident a lot better the past when it came to fights between my sister and I. I thought I had tried to do the right thing, or the lesser of evils, in those moments before my sister attacked me.

Again, she shut me down.

She told me how inconsiderate I was for trying to pull her away from the little one so late at night, how I mishandled the situation, and how I should have kicked her arse a long time ago; if I had, this would never have happened. She told me how she taught my little sister to hit someone back if they hit her first—to sta said that that was not that way she had raised me. I was raised to back off when someone wanted to pick a fight because if I hit back, I would be in trouble too. walk away. How could my mother be so contradictory?

She shut me down. Over and over again, she tore me apart. I have never felt so empty, so hated, so vulnerable—so alone. Soon after this, when Mom went to leave, she gave me a hug and said she'd talk to me later. One afternoon, I saw her online and decided to try talking to her again. She treated me so hatefully; she began to accuse me of conspiring with my father to write her a vicious, nasty e-mail about all of this that had happened.

I had no idea, not a single clue about what it was to which she was referring. She attacked me, ripped me apart... I tried, in vain, to work things out...but to no avail. Then, I began to receive nasty, and I do mean hateful, spiteful, nasty, malicious e-mails from my stepfather. He accused me of so many heinous things, I dare n I fear I shall burst into tears once more at the mere thought of them. He continued to send these e-mails to me for several days. I went to the counselor at school. If my mother had allowed me to say my what I had to say, to defend myself, if she had wanted to help the situation rather tha never would have seen it necessary to seek a third party. More importantly, if my mother had been there that night, when I pleaded with her...if she had been there..I would not have gone to see that counselor.

My mother was my counselor, my guide, my conscience. Not anymore, it seemed. She hated me, it seemed. She wanted to control the narrative. If she wanted control, she should have been there to take it. She could have come, but she chose not to. It was in that moment that she relinquished a voice in what followed after that night. She gave up the power to say later bitched about when she chose to ignore the situation as it was happening—the fact that her daughter was bleeding profusely and was crying out for her pr chose to ignore this, left her powerless, voiceless..

Someone reported this to Social Services; perhaps it was the counselor, perhaps it was a teacher; someone who knew what had happened---someone I told. Social Services came to the school to ask me some questions. I answered them honestly. They asked me about my siblings (their ages, where they went to scho answered honestly. Soon, my mother called my dad to scream and yell because, evidently, Social Services had come by her house and wanted to talk to my little sister.

Mom was mad because I brought a third party into the mix. She was mad because I had gone to the counselor at school, and that Social Services wanted to spe year-old daughter. She was even angrier that Dad wasn't going to let my sister back into the house unless it was for something she needed with regard to work angry because she was going to have to let my sister stay with her. She was going to have to take another burden upon her shoulders, like a modern day Atlas. that Dad had replaced the old locks with new ones. She was mad at me for all of this, she blamed me for it all. I had taken the family business outside of the fa family was taking care of it already. I had talked my dad into locking my sister out of the house. I had been the mastermind behind the plan, which was inevitably to have Dad all to myself. That's what she said. That is what she believed. She said she hoped I was happy that I got my way.

It was a lie, a lie she was telling herself in order to escape accepting any responsibility for her actions, was how I wasn't taking responsibility, how no one was taking responsibility for their actions (except for my sister), when it was clearer than ever that everyone else (me) but her had already done that and she was the one pointing all the fingers when she really needed to be taking a step back and realizing that she had just as much blame in all of this as anyone else. family down. She had let me down. What was worse, she was taking sides.

The family had not handled the incident properly. My mother had chosen to stay out of the incident while it was occurring. I called it neglect. She was fully awar circumstances and she chose to ignore them, saying that I dramatized the whole thing. I know what happened and my sister knows what happened.

I told the truth. I admitted I could have handled it differently. But my sister spread lies. She told a friend of ours that I had her kicked out of the house because she tried to stab me. I was completely dumbfound shocked, absolutely shocked! I never said anything about her stabbing me! It wasn't even my decision to have her kicked out of the house. I even offered to move. I was later attacked by my stepfather, again, and told that I was not allowed in their household and that I needn't bother myself with the affairs of their family. I am being officially disowned. A woman neglects, attacks, and subsequently disowns her daughter; and still, at the end of the night, she can sleep in comfort, having concluded all of phrase as:

Love, Mom.

And she wonders why I think she hates me. Why do I think you hate me, Mother? Because You say you love me but do not trust me. Love and synonymous with one another. One cannot be without the other. You tell me everything I do wrong, it seems you keep a list of my mistakes. You said your moth same thing and that you would never repeat her actions. And yet, and yet.

You still have the audacity to dangle those two words over me.

Love, Mom

It's a lie. A mother's love is unconditional.

———————————————————————————————————

Since then, my relationships with my mother and sister have much improved. We communicate amicably and fairly often.

It’s my fondest wish to shoot this whole scene with a comedic spin to it somehow. I have so many ideas! Someday, I’m going to have my own stand-up special, and I’m going to talk about this nonsense, and then I’m gonna call the whole act “I Can Laugh About It Now”. Or, better still, that’s gotta be the name of my memoir.

Chapter 4

“Unnatural”

We’re gonna talk about my sexual orientation and how it all sort of went down in my world. No coming of age tale would be complete without a girlcrush, right?

I was obsessed with Captain Janeway from age 5 until now. At first, I kinda wanted to be her. It was all very innocent. Nah, not kinda. I desperately wanted to be just like her. Later on, I kinda wanted to kiss her, but I didn’t quite have that impulse til I was about 10 or 11. Every time she smiled, I would hold my breath. I only cared about the Janewaycentric episodes, really. I hardcore shipped Janeway/Chakotay until I found the J/7 femmeslash. Oh, femmeslash. *nostalgic sigh*

I used to memorize all her lines, mimic her voice.

So which was it? Attraction or admiration? I had no idea.

She was PERFECT to me. Even though she wasn’t.

If anyone disparaged her character on the internet, I was always there (I learned my lesson about that rabbit hole later) to defend her. I wrote to her in my journal, asking for her advice and telling her about my life and troubles. I was especially considered with how she would tell me to handle my parents’ divorce. I have met her 3 or 4 times now.

The intensity has since passed, as I’ve grown out of the world of fantasy and into the entertainment industry. Reality me hard on this lady, but I still admire her as a role model and probably always will, especially after reading her memoirs. That woman is brutally frank, and I respect her for that.

My mother said it was unnatural, my obsession with Captain Janeway.

Daddy said, “It’s just hero worship, honey.”

But Maman said, “That's unnautral; let’s take her to a therapist!”

Thanks, Dad, you tried. Poor guy. He was always so oblivious.

I still remember those Exodus International emails-they make me laugh now, but back then? I was like…gee, THANKS.

We’ve since more or less come to an agreement that this is no longer an issue between us, and my gf is a welcome part of the family. Ta-da! See? There IS hope!

It DOES get better!

…the More You KNOW! *cue the jingle-you know which one I’m talking about*

Except for the part where no one really ever explained sex or what lesbianism was, or that that was a problem my whole life long. How could they act so surprised or shocked? I guess my mom really thought I was sick.

Dad basically said, after my sister outed me in front of him, that he still loved me no matter what.

But THEN.

THEN.

He did something that I still cannot even believe to this day. EVEN.

My father, an ordained minister and former Pentecostal and ex-Catholic, opens his mouth and says (about sex with men):

“Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.”

Basically, he’s implying my orientation is “just a phase” that can be cured with heterosexual intercourse. Or at least that’s how it sounded to me! I swear I could hear a record scratch there, and then I said, “Dad, are you condoning premarital sex?”

Yeah, I don’t remember what he said after that, but I remember him being caught off guard by my logic there. Maybe he knew where I was going next, which is that I know if I wait til I’m married to come out as still gay, then my marriage is built on a lie and everyone loses. I know how sad it is, what living in a closeted marriage and being unhappy for so long can do to a family when the truth finally comes out. Some people can live that way, but I respect the sanctity and institution of marriage too much to treat it so flippantly. I won’t marry someone I don’t love, period.

Chapter 5

Father Figures

I have 3. How about you?

Funny. Dad was a Conscientious Objector during Vietnam. Kept him from going to war. Now he’s a card-carrying member of the NRA.

"What changed?” I asked him one day.

“Having kids,” was the reply right away, followed by,”I realized I’d be willing to take up a weapon to defend them.”

Hm. Vietnam ended in 1975, officially, right? The year my half-brother, we’ll call him Lee, was born. He’d already had one other child prior, a girl named Marie (also not really her name).

Fun fact: my dad’s dad abandoned him and his mom died when he was a year and a half years old.

Not-so-fun fact: he basically abandoned his first two kids. The oldest doesn’t even acknowledge him as her father, even though she’s the spitting image of him, and the other one (Lee) doesn’t respect him or really communicate with him at all.

My upbringing was different from theirs, largely because I wasn’t even really aware of their existence until I was about 12 years old—well after my parents split. It turned out he’d been married twice before my mom.

What. The fuck.

My sister calls him Old Man. An aptly name. The man’s been old since birth. He’s always been that moral guy, but he’s also notoriously "cheap".

And, it turns out, he’s ALSO a liar! Apparently, lying and deception runs rampantly and with great zest in my family.

Chapter 6

"Father Figures: The One That Got Away"

Ev was my mom’s first “true love”.

Probably her only true love.

He came into my life when I was 9/10.

It was a whole other world, so completely different from anything I’d known up until that point. It was sort of like the Upside Down, but I grew to really love Ev and his world. We even have matching tattoos!

He’s one of those guitar prodigies. He can play anything by ear.

Yngwie Malmsteen would be jealous.

But, he was never a biological father. He didn’t really have the know-how or the intuition necessary for parenting—nor was he healthy enough, mentally or otherwise, to be a father figure in my life, at the time.

He’s also impossible to get a hold of.

He “lent” me his American-made Fender Strat. If you’re reading this, Ev, you can bet you’ll probably never see this puppy again unless you come see me! Religion wasn’t really a factor in my life during this period. And even after they broke up, it seemed like none of that really mattered anymore.

Chapter 7

"Father Figures: THAT Guy From The Internet Your Mother Warned You About And Then You Married ANYWAY!"

Ah, the Internet. Tis a place of wonderment.

A place of joy. A place of never-ending time suckery, as well as personal enlightenment. A hotbed of porn and pedophiles. And Nigerian Princes. And funny cat videos.

And so it came to be that, while searching for the One That Got Away, my poor mother happened to fall into the Web of a Spider claiming to be a Marine Corps veteran named Jason. He was into UFOs and conspiracy theories, and he played guitar. Oh, and he could cook. And he was funny. Too funny. Long story short, it was all lies.

He was never in the military.

He never carried his dead wife’s body across the Gulf.

He never had any other kids.

He was one big lie.

And he was dangerous.

But the one good thing he did was take part in the conception and upbringing of my younger sister. She’s the best thing about him, and he doesn’t deserve to have her in his life. I think he’s finally starting to realize that as he now gets to miss out on some of the most important milestones in her life as she approaches adulthood.

I love my sister. Fiercely.

You will, too. Trust me. That’s right, you’re not only going to learn about her but you’re going to hear about her A LOT. She’s one of the most important people in my life.

Anywho, so 15 years later, they’re divorced.

I thought the day would never come.

The fam has never fully recovered from all that, but we’re working on it. Well, at least I know my sister is trying to get there. I’m pretty much past all of it and, like many other shitty things that have happened to me, I accept that it’s part of my story and others just might be in the same boat. Or maybe they haven’t and could use a little perspective on family dynamics.

My family sure has plenty of dynamics-I mean, the dysfunction alone is worth its weight in sobriety chips!

Chapter 8

"Jew-ish."

Speaking of dynamics, here’s an old sock that seems to have made a revival tour through my mom’s brain. You may be asking, why are you here? You don’t belong here…

Oh, fam….oh, how wrong..muahahahaa! But I do! Why bother, you say? Well, let me tell you a tale, my friends…I decided to get into stand-up because I knew my mother would just die happy if I got my own Netflix special someday…just so she could be on it with me.

Yes, yes…see, unlike every other comedian EVER whose parents were sorely disappointed in their choice to pursue the elusive industry that is stand-up, I impulsively cast aside my sensible, stable teaching career to try my hand at being broke!

It’s going pretty well so far…but hey, unlike all those other poor shmucks, I have my mother’s blessing! (I wonder why) Something about money being the means to a purpose, not the purpose itself, it’s not about the money, it’s about making people happy, yadda-yadda.

Yes, no Doctors or Dentists or Lawyers could marry me outta this career choice—not if my mother had anything to do with it..(my mother has EVERYTHING to do with it)

You’ve never lived til you’ve lived with a Jew-ish mother.

Not a “Jewish” mother…no, no…Jew-ISH.

Here’s the thing about OUR people that people get wrong all the time. Little known fun fact you can file away in your who gives a fuck folder when you ask for your money back on your way out of here tonight…

First off, just like my Catholic friends often say they don’t really practice…which means they only go to the big Masses. They don’t really go through the whole THING, right? Same with Jews…yes, yes, folks, there’s this amazing new ‘-Ish’ out there…JEW-ISH…In fact, I believe -ish is actually from the Yiddish meaning…ISH.

So here’s what life is like…

You get all the Jew-ish things, except go to Temple.

You don’t really do Shabbat—that’s just too much work, and there’s just enough Gentile blood in me to be not so inclined…even the Jews know their shit is way outdated..gotta keep it fresh and MODERN, very..GEN Z…the KETO DIET OF RELIGIONS. Except for the matzoh, and Challah and bagels…so maybe not so much Keto.

One thing you have to know about me is that, due to the Jew-ish side, I tend to gesticulate a lot and my thoughts tend to be tangential and self-deprecating…

Alright, let me tell you about living with a Jew-ISH mother…

There’s this amazing logic my mother finally discovered, which is that-even though she identifies as a Christian—it’s totally cool for Christians to celebrate Chanukah AND Christmas.

Now, I’m no Rabbi or theologian, but when she said that…part of me was like, is that really cool? And then I quickly said, SELF: THIS IS NO LONGER AN “OR” SITUATION…WE HAVE AN “AND” SITUATION….and I immediately shut my mouth.

As I count out all ma GELT and ma candy canes….bitches!!! See, that’s why I love being at this age when I can have these deep, philosophical debates with my parents.

My dad was brought up by really old Catholic folks, his great-grandparents. Really old, slow-moving people…he was brought up Catholic and then later on converted to Protestantism and became a minister…for about a minute…and then who knows what all happened there, but the point is—my dad’s basically just really old, and I wanted to share that with you so you can see where some of these other jokes are gonna come from later on..but that’s another Oprah..

One thing I like to talk about is how my mom will do this thing..and…while I wish I could own this as a distinctly Jew-ISH trait. My mom has this thing she does where, you could be having a really deep conversation…or even an argument…and if you say just the right words in just the right sequence, it’s literally like tripping a wire—my mom will take what you said and burst into song from a musical. Yes, just like this…it’s like living in a Barbra Streisand movie, living with my mom…

But it’s not an insult…a little meshugineh, maybe…but trust me, when you’re running to the bathroom and you say “I’ve gotta run to the bathroom,” my mother actually DOES the Miss Hannigan thing from Annie...

And yes, we get matching shirts everywhere we go, and NOW we have these ones that match that say something about being those “people” who into musical theatre….but in truth, they probably really scream something more like “If you hate musicals, consider this your ONLY warning. Danger! Danger! Spontaneous showtune in 10…9….8….7….” And there’s time I just want time to slow down all Inception-like…shit, I’m actually dating myself…Um, QUICK GEN Z FILM REFERENCE---UM…GET OUT! Alright…so yeah, if time could just slow down, you’d see me come up to you on the street just as she’s about to blow like it’s something out of Die Hard….it was you!

This is all YOUR fault!

I wanna have one of those super intense close-up moments with this NORMAL person right before my poor innocent, unsuspecting friend says in passing about some politician, say…Donald Trump, “I can’t stand him!”

BOOM. It’s over. You've pushed the big red button, and now...you're committed.

You’ll be sitting through the entire score and poorly-executed choreography from Singin’ in the Rain for the next 3 hours. And then, after that, it’s like a rabbit-hole, she ends up singing karaoke to Yentl and eventually passing out on the sofa—wait, excuse me, that is…eventually “resting her eyes” on the sofa.

Hence, the t-shirt.

I just think people should know what they’re getting themselves into, cuz, truth is, not everyone can handle it. Me, I grew up with it, so..

My favorite thing is to actually NOT warn people about this, because it’s amusing filming their reactions to her musical…outbursts, shall we call them? But here’s the thing, here’s how I know I’m Jewish enough to call myself Jew-ish.

I love it.

Always have, always will.

My mom’s silly, outgoing, give no fucks, sing wildly offkey attitude taught me to just go do whatever I was meant to do…no matter how badly, because if anything was that bad, then..it’d be funny, and I’d be alright. Because I could be so pissed off, but I know that if I say something I know will trigger her, she’ll take the bait and then we end up cracking up.

And so, for all those people out there who hate on musicals, claiming they’re not “realistic” because “no one just randomly bursts into song” in real life…clearly has never been to my house.

But it’s the best thing ever…except all the perpetual, confusing and rather contradictory messaging that occupied my formative years, resulting in me becoming a stand-up comedian. And it’s not just musicals either, she just really into singing badly….! Alright, where was I..?

How to tell if You’re Jew-ISH....oh! Here’s one…

You never watch the 2nd tape of Fiddler on the Roof, nope! Too depressing, even for us Jew-ish people. Let’s see, what else…?

“A lil chopped liva” enters into your daily conversation in our household..

I'm sure there's more, but my bagel is ready and you know you only have a few seconds to get your shmear on there before it's too late!

TO BE CONTINUED....

Goldenchild will be available in the Amazon Store and wherever e-books are sold beginning July 1st, 2020! Pre-orders begin June 5th!

@katharynrking

@thraeyceofficialmusic