You must Publish this diary to make this visible to the public,
or click 'Edit Diary' to make further changes first.
Posting a Diary Entry
Daily Kos welcomes blog articles from readers, known as diaries. The Intro section to a diary should be about three paragraphs long, and is required. The body section is optional, as
is the poll, which can have 1 to 15 choices. Descriptive tags are also required to help others find your diary by subject; please don't use "cute" tags.
When you're ready, scroll down below the tags and click Save & Preview. You can edit your diary after it's published by clicking Edit Diary. Polls cannot be edited once they are published.
If this is your first time creating a Diary since the Ajax upgrade, before you enter any text below, please press Ctrl-F5 and then hold down the Shift Key and press your browser's Reload button to refresh its cache with the new script files.
ATTENTION: READ THE RULES.
One diary daily maximum.
Substantive diaries only. If you don't have at least three solid, original paragraphs, you should probably post a comment in an Open Thread.
No repetitive diaries. Take a moment to ensure your topic hasn't been blogged (you can search for Stories and Diaries
that already cover this topic), though fresh original analysis is always welcome.
Use the "Body" textbox if your diary entry is longer than three paragraphs.
Any images in your posts must be hosted by an approved image hosting service (one of: imageshack.us, photobucket.com, flickr.com, smugmug.com, allyoucanupload.com, picturetrail.com, mac.com, webshots.com, editgrid.com).
Copying and pasting entire copyrighted works is prohibited. If you do quote something, keep it brief, always provide a link to the original source, and use the <blockquote> tags to clearly identify the quoted material. Violating this rule is grounds for immediate banning.
Be civil. Do not "call out" other users by name in diary titles. Do not use profanity in diary titles. Don't write diaries whose main purpose is to deliberately inflame.
The guy they tried to pass off as my father was a redheaded balding guy named Brian. I must have run the probabilities in my head, the ones all children know when they look different from their mothers. I started calling him Uncle Brian and he started to hate me. I asked about my coloring and was told I took after my grandmother. My grandmother explained I looked the most like her mother, a woman named Florence who loved to rockhound and follow tide pools along the Oregon coast until one day she slipped and the cancer seemed to drag her out to sea. First her leg. Later the rest. Florence advocated the kind lie: get married and tell her Brian is her father.
Brian and Mom didn’t stay together. But I visited one weekend.
The house was big, I remember that. Some soap company with pine trees and a gravel driveway with large rocks. I brought a baton I liked to spin. There was a big yard with a dog. What kind of dog doesn’t matter when you’re five. The bright sun, a thick chain attached to the dog house. Faded paint and splintered wood. The links were heavy and large in my hands. The dog ran out of the house and made circles around me, wrapped the chain around my body before I could move and I screamed when the house fell on top of me. All I could hear was the dog barking. Dried grass poked through the chain.
Bryan came to untie me and we went to the basement.
This was the bowel of the house, lit by television snow and a caged light bulb. And spiders, so many spiders. I tried to come upstairs and several men shouted me back down. I could hear them talking above. Later there was not enough water in the bath and dead McDonald’s cheeseburgers. Brian tried to get cartoons to come in on the television. I stayed the night down there in the spider corner.
I liked to gallop instead of walk when I was a kid. When I came outside I trotted down the driveway. At some point I tripped and fell on the gravel. Blood covered my knee and Brian wrapped it in a stained rag with duct tape. I remember the spongy infection later.
I found my baton somewhere and remember thinking the sun hurt my eyes.