And so, here I am. Giving meaning.

I like dealing with the intricacies of life. Yes, just trying to figure things out. That’s the first thing I can remember. A question. What’s going on? And finally I recognized people around me. And that I was me. That I existed. That I was an entity. Rather profound, I guess. But I really didn’t initially know how profound. Because I wasn’t even aware of such a word as ‘profound.’ There I was. I existed. I was becoming conscious. Of myself. And others. I was beginning to relate. I don’t seem to have much memory of the first year or two. Maybe not until we moved into the basement of my uncle’s home in Chicago. Maybe that’s the first home or living quarters that I can remember. We lived out of a car for a while. But I don’t remember that at all. My mom told me it happened. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known. So I don’t think that had an irreparable harm. The car must have seemed a natural place to be. Maybe because I was with my mom and dad. I probably thought of them as my protectors. Though I’m not sure about that. I think I felt safe with them. I don’t remember feeling insecure. Except once I got lost on the way home from school. I remember crying about it. And going to the home of a stranger. To proclaim that I was lost. Anyway, I ended up at home. In the basement. And I remember bringing a drawing I made in kindergarten home with me. Or so I thought. I had it in hand. But when I got home, I discovered that I had lost it. Dropped it along the way. Inadvertently. And I cried about it. Yes, I remember crying. I don’t know why I cried. Maybe I was a natural born crybaby. I think I even cried on the first day of kindergarten. I wasn’t ashamed to cry. It seemed so natural. If I fell and scrapped my knee, I cried. Now I think of crying as a stupid response to hurt. Maybe even to emotional hurt. Though I do it. When one of my pets dies, for instance. But when people die, I’m less likely to cry. I wonder why. I don’t cry if I hurt physically. Maybe I anguish. And look for some kind of relief. Could be that as I became a few years older, I learned more to control my emotional responses. I don’t know if that was good or bad. I guess it just seemed appropriate. Maybe I was being taught. By mom and dad and my teachers. To control my emotions. To be a good boy. Whatever that meant. I was to differentiate between good and bad. And that was confusing. Seems to me that I wasn’t making my own decisions. Other people were making ‘em for me. Telling me what to do. To behave. To do as they say. But bit by bit, I learned that I had the power to make my own decisions. That I had to start relying on myself. And that I had the power of expression. And that’s why I was being sent to school. To learn. How to speak. And to even write. Words. Meaningful words. To expand my vocabulary. So that I could give meaning to life. And so, here I am. Giving meaning. –Jim Broede