Where do I begin to reveal the details of my soul that counter the monster I’ve become? With no time to vacillate with eternity on the line? Opprobrium for those who wronged me and even the scorn I had for myself cannot be quieted. If God was asking for forgiveness from me, I couldn’t oblige him—too much unforgettable rage left over from earth. How could I be grateful for the one simple thing in life denied to me? Paige was the reason I had to try. I couldn’t let Culver have her, but I also couldn’t deny my soul—the most real part of me. How all I’ve taken here couldn’t save anyone.
Our lives are ultimately defined by the choices we made, and just like most decisions rendered through sheer emotions, my mother’s pregnancy was a mistake that had a domino effect on other lives. On Groundhog Day in the year 1971, I, Landyn Lastman, son of Paul and Suzanne Lastman of Harbor City, California, arrived into this world unplanned and unwanted. Although my birth fulfilled my mother’s hopes and dreams, it wrecked my fathers’. I never felt unloved or that he never loved or cared for my mother, I just felt he took his unhappiness out on me whenever the opportunity arose. He would never admit to any wrongdoing, but it was too late for that anyway because my mind had already absorbed his indifference towards me during my formative years.
The deck was stacked against my father from the very beginning of his life, and when I came on the scene, it only disintegrated his hopes for a better one. He grew up in an old fashioned third-generation Italian household where discipline was dealt with physicality rather than time-outs—where respect was never earned but always given. He was the third child, born in between two brothers and three sisters at the same hour allied forces landed on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day, June sixth, 1944. He grew up in such a poor environment that all three boys shared a single twin bed and many nights were spent on a more comfortable option—the floor. I never knew the details, but how he ever got a decent nights’ sleep in those conditions was beyond me as the constant fatigue had to affect his performance in school. This kind of life was extremely difficult on him; a reason why he found it equally difficult to build a bridge with me, a kid who lived in a relative ‘lap of luxury’ in his eyes.
When he learned my mother was pregnant, he proposed to her. Most would say he did the right thing when he chose to wed my mother, but it only produced animosity in the eyes of the ones that were supposed to love and support him—his family. In 1961, my grandfather, a legendary fisherman in town, hurt his back on the job when he slipped and fell onto the second deck of his boat. Unable to provide for his family a year later, he decided to undergo a routine, but risky back procedure. The surgeon botched his back surgery so badly, he could never fish nor earn the same money again. A dark depression ensued as he dealt with his lost profession, one he loved and did for forty years, along with a mountain of debt with six growing kids in tow. This led him to find comfort in alcohol, bringing some joy in the pit of his darkness.
Since they were born, my grandfather punished his boys with feet and fists instead of kisses and hugs. He grew up in a poor part of town in Genoa, Italy, and his father issued the same form of discipline since it kept him out of trouble. He found his father’s form of discipline effective, so he played it forward to use on his own sons, as it was easy for boys to turn to drugs and crime in the rough town of Harbor City where they lived. The fear of a beating from their father, if he found out, always put a quick end to any temptation and kept them out of trouble. When his depression deepened from drinking, especially those times when a lack of funds for even a single beer led to mood altering withdrawal symptoms, he morphed into a more brutal disciplinarian—a change that didn’t sit well with his wife. He then became more prone to fits of rage, and would even kick his kids from underneath the table at dinner when they wanted more than they received to eat. Some nights, the kids were left with empty stomachs because he spent too much money on his battle with depression; an enemy no one could see or feel but him.
His behavior forced his wife into the decision to divorce him as she turned each of her kids against their own father in court. She even encouraged her daughters to commit perjury as their fifth child, Frances, testified their father had hit her. In the end, the Judge ruled in favor of my grandmother, and she took everything he had. Since his older brothers were married and moved out before the divorce, she won custody of my dad and his three younger sisters. As a result, at the age of eighteen, his first year out of high school, my father became the sole provider of the family. When he got my mother pregnant at the age of twenty-seven, nine years after the divorce ruling, my father remained the breadwinner. As he put his life on hold, unable to be with his girlfriend of eight years who waited for him, his mother and three sisters took advantage of his hard-earned money, even when they could work themselves. For nine years, nearly every dollar my father earned went directly to his mother so she could take care of her kids, while his sisters waited for someone to marry them so they didn’t have to work. When he broke the news of his plans to marry his girlfriend, it infuriated my grandmother and his sisters. And after accepting this responsibility as a parent, my grandmother then made the decision to never speak to him again. Up until the day his mother died, and although we were just a ten-minute drive away, my father and grandmother never spoke to each other again. Needless to say, I never got to meet her.
It didn’t take a genius to imagine how many times the word “abortion” came up in those arguments. Rather than depend on herself for income, my father’s sister Frances chose to harass my mother during her pregnancy instead. She would call my mother a ‘whore’ and a ‘slut’ on a daily basis around town. When my mother sent her an invitation to the wedding, out of respect and with hope for a reconciliation, Frances opted against selecting the “respectfully decline” box. She instead sent the invitation back with written messages such as “What color is your dress? There’s no way it could be white” and “I hope you have a miscarriage.” Feeling responsible for the family strife, she asked my father to raise the baby on her own, but he rebuffed all her attempts to do so. She had waited long enough for him and didn’t deserve to wait any longer he would tell her. If his own mother couldn’t find joy in his happiness or support him, then how could he ever depend on her to? After nine years of loyalty beyond what any of his other family members gave, he was ostracized from her life, all for the crime of beginning his own.
My father always felt his mother unnecessarily pulled the trigger on her marriage and then unfairly relied on him to support her without any help from other members of his family. My grandmother felt my father had sinned against God when he impregnated my mother before they were married. My father was a man of principle and felt this situation was a sign from God rather than a sin against Him. Although he never told her, my father found his mother to have sinned when she gave up on his father—a man she made vows, before God and family, to love “for better or for worse”. My father felt the lack of support during her husband’s greatest time of need, was what drove him to believe in the bottle more than in the vows she made to him. He reasoned she had six kids with the man and wouldn’t have done so if she believed her husband was a horrible human being incapable of redemption. Regardless, she never made an effort to find a way to earn money to help with the family crisis, instead relying on a man who experienced nothing less than a tragic stroke of bad luck to carry them.
Until now, I haven’t thought about my father’s family fallout—it was never any of my business. My father’s side of the family were all good to me regardless of the history. My uncles were always so much fun to be around and even my aunts were sweet and kind when I got to meet them at my grandmother’s funeral. My father’s foundation though best explained my misfortune—why I felt cursed at times and why love mattered to me so damn much. My mother tolerated quite a bit, and my father gave up quite a bit to have me, yet here I was in hell—a far cry from the man they raised. I’ve spent my entire life absolutely convinced if I had never been born, everyone’s lives would’ve been much better off. A miscarriage, or even an abortion, would have been best for everyone.
Suddenly, I’m transported to a moment from my young childhood in 1975. That year, my father had been away in the army for the summer months, and had to work most days to make ends meet. At such a young age, I was unaware of the stress and fatigue he faced on a daily basis, and the pained history with his family. I’m running around the house, wearing a pair of blue under all pajamas, a broad smile upon my face and carrying a birthday card in the shape of the number four.
“Let’s take your picture, son.” My father tells me. “Stand over by the shelves.”
The living room in my old house had three shelves built into one of its walls. My mother used it for displaying Hallmark cards, framed pictures and assorted flowers. To this three-foot-tall four-year-old, my father was a giant of a man standing twice my height. While scratching his dark moustache, twitching his bushy eyebrows, and flexing his furry arms he positioned me in front of these shelves with no sense of joy. I stood there proudly though with my card in a death grip while he pointed the Polaroid Instant Camera at me. With a wide crooked smile, I couldn’t wait for my picture to be added to the shelf of great moments behind me. We didn’t have to wait a week for the photo to be developed, instantly added to the shelf within a flash. After positioning me in the way he envisioned, I triumphantly yelled “cheese,” and he snapped the picture. After he said “good job,” Feeling a sense of accomplishment, I did a little jig on the dark carpet. While he waved the pic back and forth trying to dry it, a glorious thought dawned on me—there was one day out of the year my parents found me worthy of some kind of celebration. With this in mind, a huge smile broke upon my face with pure joy as I shuffled my feet over to see the picture my father took. Ripping it in two, he then barked at me to “go back” to my spot so he could take a “better one”. As I stood there in anticipation of the word “cheese,” he suddenly turned into Polaroid’s Michelangelo.
“Son, bend your left leg and lift it up.” He instructed.
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“Okay, Dad!” I acknowledged eager to please but without knowing my left from my right.
“No, the other leg!” He clarified with vigor. “Don’t you know your right from your left?”
“This is my left.” Whispering to myself as I bent the leg he wanted me to.
“Landyn! What are you doing? Don’t unbend your leg!” He yelled. “Stand there and keep it bent.”
“Oh…like this.” I replied still uncertain of what he wanted.
“Now, what are you doing?” He shouted. “Keep it bent, I said! The left one! Not the right one! The right one is the wrong one!”
“Hey, Dad?” Asking in confusion.
“What?”
“How could my right leg be the wrong leg too?”
“What kind of question is that? That is your right leg, not the wrong one.” He said pointing to my right leg. “There’s no such thing as a wrong leg.”
“But Dad, you just told me I was using the wrong leg, not the right one.” I countered. “But I was using the right one.”
“Can you just bend your left leg and keep it bent for the picture?!” He retorted. “No! Why would you bend the wrong leg again? The other leg is your left leg. Now lift that leg off the ground. Now bend it. Keep your right leg straight! Can’t you extend your leg out a little more? You can’t bend it any more than that?”
Since it seemed I now required the flexibility of Plastic Man, I became too rattled to continue and started tearing up.
“Ah…forget it. Say ‘cheese’.” He said in frustration, snapping the picture. “Happy birthday.”
What he envisioned for the picture was for me to bend my left leg in front of my straight right leg to form the number four. What he received was a red-eyed Polaroid of me holding up the number four shaped birthday card with my legs in the shape of a distorted “X” instead. A picture that never made it to the shelf of great moments with the others.
My fourth birthday ostensibly set the stage for our disconnect. Over time, not only would he make me feel I failed him, but also that he didn’t seem to believe in me. Opinions I spent most of my life trying to change. The beast seemed to revel in this revelation produced by this flashback. It knew the sort of anger born from it—the kind that puts one on the path to hell. My fear from its delight pushes me to another day when I was six—to another episode of his discontent. The day I decided to run away from home. Since we lived across the street from a canyon, making an executive decision to live there was easy, feeling I’d have more luck coexisting with opossums, racoons, and skunks than I did with my father. Since the move was only sixty yards away, this shouldn’t have been too hard on my mother. She knew where I’d be me if she ever wanted to visit. Still, she tried to discourage my move by telling me a giant crocodile with a taste for little boys lived in the canyon. But it only made me want to live there even more hoping to catch it and make it my pet. When that didn’t work, she droned on about the horrors of the canyon at night while I packed three large carboard boxes with all the toys I had, and another smaller box with clothes. Since I didn’t have a wagon for transporting, I walked each box to the park. Working in a methodical fashion, I picked up a box and moved it five yards. I’d then pick up the second box and move it ahead of the first box. Then grabbing the third and placing it ahead of the second. Lastly, I’d snatch the fourth and place it above the third. Repeating the process until reaching my mecca. By the time I reached the canyon, the moon ruled the sky. Leaving my boxes there, I decided to return home to ask my father for one last favor.
“Hey, Dad. Can I spend the night?” I asked. “I’ll be out first thing in the morning.”
“All right, but you know you’re gonna have to start your move all over again, don’t you?” He replied. “You don’t want anyone stealin’ your toys, do you?”
“Umm…no.” I replied never considering that possibility. While making a mad dash back to the canyon, unaware the entire time, my father was right behind—to help me bring my boxes back home. The next morning, he extended an olive branch by offering to hit me some fly balls at the park where the canyon resided before I started my move again. I guess I made some pretty good catches that day—he allowed me to stay for another twenty years.
My father gave me tough love, a form of love I struggled to find trust in. At such a young age, my formative years, my mind absorbed the trauma brought on by it. As I grew older, with each stumble in life and the grief he gave me over it, I could only cling to those times when my father doubted me. He never saw the positive in any risk by playing devil’s advocate whenever I found the courage enough to dream. Exuding constant negativity energy his love felt more like attacks causing my mind to rail against his judgments and opinions—undoubtedly brought on by his own lost hopes and dreams. Although he taught me humility, it was merely a biproduct of his tough love, attacking my confidence to the point it left me with none. Instilling in me a fear of failure so great, it only reeled me inward. Leaving me to take a back seat to others, even when my abilities were of greater value. In a highly competitive world, where people with a high sense of worth succeeded, it was the last thing I needed. I relied on sports, mostly baseball, basketball, and football, and the friendships I made through them to gain any sense of belonging, while feeling like a burden at home more than a blessing.
My father had no intent to promote a low sense of self-worth in me, it was just a natural response after his own life experiences. He never had to paint a false sun either, just one that didn’t always leave me scalded. By the age of sixteen, I was made aware of the history with his family. Allowing me to consider all he gave up, how he felt bitter, and why it affected me. There’s a saying that goes, “people will never forget the way you made them feel”. A saying that held true value because of what I absorbed from him. I never hated my father, he taught me how to catch, throw and hit a baseball. He put clothes on my back, a roof over my head, and even spent thousands on braces to fix my teeth when I was younger. I will always be grateful, but he made me feel he did those things for a stranger, not for his son. I just could never find trust in his love due to the family upheaval my birth caused. When I learned about it all, it clarified beyond all uncertainty that he would’ve been much happier if I was never born.