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I wish I could say this was a story about how I got on the bus a Boy
and got off a man more cynical, hardened, and mature and shit.
But that's not true.
The truth is I got on the bus a boy.
And I never got off the bus.
I still haven't.
-Childish Gambino, That Power

Copyright © CHS Chapbooks 2021. All rights reserved. No part of this material may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means without permission from CHS Chapbooks.

I wish I could say this was a story about how I got on the bus a Boy
and got off a man more cynical, hardened, and mature and shit.
But that's not true.
The truth is I got on the bus a boy.
And I never got off the bus.
I still haven't.
-Childish Gambino, That Power

CONTENT WARNING: Parent sickness, Parent death

When I was young, young enough to have perfect skin and golden blonde hair, my dad was strong. He had a body like a football player, legs strong from biking and arms with big bear hands, face wide with a jaw built to scowl. He stood in stark contrast to me, his skin a mosaic of white and pink and red and beige and little dots of all sorts, his hair sprinkled grey and all shades of brown. But in all his strength, he was as warm as the sun. He held me in arms that could crush and break but tucked me into bed with all the care and love in the world, his face smiled with all the beauty ever known. When I was young, all I could see was his endless strength was all I saw. He would chase me through fields or carry me on shoulders of steel or tell me stories he made up on the spot. As a kid, all of me knew that this would last forever, because love was strong enough to keep it going.

When I was old enough to notice the grass stains in my jeans and have calluses on my hands and scabs on my knees, my dad was strong. He was softer at the edges now. He sometimes needed to lie down or catch his breath, and somedays he couldn't get out of bed for the day. Dark circles under his eyes joined the mosaic of his skin, and he moved from his bed a few doors down to the basement. The basement was full of toys for me to play with, and even if we went out to run and jump less I could always come down to build a lego car to drive us to the field. But even as a kid I knew it wasn't the basement paradise I thought it was. If I laid my ear on the cool kitchen tiles, sometimes I could hear him crying. Face-down on the kitchen floor was where I learned that love couldn't fix everything. A lesson going against all his stories and his warmth and the cartoons we watched together. But he was strong for me, and even if he couldn’t lift me on his shoulders or tuck me into bed or keep his sunny smile all the time, I still appreciated it. 

When I was too old to get my clothes dirty and too stupid to not trip when I ran, my dad was strong. But his body was not strong enough to carry itself. He had long since moved out, a process I had purposely clouded with the fog of old memories. Wrinkles and lines intercrossed the scars on his face.His hair was long and almost entirely grey. There were no more thoughts of going to the field, miles away from his tiny apartment. I spent my hours watching movies and building legos. It felt like his sunshine was inaccessible to me, always blocked out by pain. Even if his arms were still bear-sized and his laugh was still booming, the strength to bike and run and play had left his body a long time ago. He called every night and I could see him every weekend. I was too stupid to know that even this wouldn’t last forever, so I didn’t. My dad is strong you see, but I am weak, and I could not stand to see him get any weaker than this.

Now I am old enough to change out of my favourite pants before I run through dirt and grass, and my hair has been stained by the sun. My Dad is strong. His hair has gone grey, he needs a chair to move, and he may never take me to the field again. But he is strong. He races with me through the halls on his chair, he shares his brain and his brawn with anyone who dares to ask questions. He loves like I am young again. He has given me his strength, so on the days where he can’t call at night, I can still spread his love somehow. 

My arms have grown to give bear hugs, my legs have grown to run, and my voice is booming and full of laughter for anyone who needs some love. I see him whenever I can, and I know now that he cannot stay and love me forever. But I've realized his strength and love will last lifetimes in his stories, my stories, my children's stories, and every single moment we share. Bodies may get old and weak you see, but strength lasts lifetimes. 

When I was young, young enough to have perfect skin and golden blonde hair, my dad was strong. He had a body like a football player, legs strong from biking and arms with big bear hands, face wide with a jaw built to scowl. He stood in stark contrast to me, his skin a mosaic of white and pink and red and beige and little dots of all sorts, his hair sprinkled grey and all shades of brown. But in all his strength, he was as warm as the sun. He held me in arms that could crush and break but tucked me into bed with all the care and love in the world, his face smiled with all the beauty ever known. When I was young, all I could see was his endless strength was all I saw. He would chase me through fields or carry me on shoulders of steel or tell me stories he made up on the spot. As a kid, all of me knew that this would last forever, because love was strong enough to keep it going.

When I was old enough to notice the grass stains in my jeans and have calluses on my hands and scabs on my knees, my dad was strong. He was softer at the edges now. He sometimes needed to lie down or catch his breath, and somedays he couldn't get out of bed for the day. Dark circles under his eyes joined the mosaic of his skin, and he moved from his bed a few doors down to the basement. The basement was full of toys for me to play with, and even if we went out to run and jump less I could always come down to build a lego car to drive us to the field. But even as a kid I knew it wasn't the basement paradise I thought it was. If I laid my ear on the cool kitchen tiles, sometimes I could hear him crying. Face-down on the kitchen floor was where I learned that love couldn't fix everything. A lesson going against all his stories and his warmth and the cartoons we watched together. But he was strong for me, and even if he couldn’t lift me on his shoulders or tuck me into bed or keep his sunny smile all the time, I still appreciated it. 

When I was too old to get my clothes dirty and too stupid to not trip when I ran, my dad was strong. But his body was not strong enough to carry itself. He had long since moved out, a process I had purposely clouded with the fog of old memories. Wrinkles and lines intercrossed the scars on his face.His hair was long and almost entirely grey. There were no more thoughts of going to the field, miles away from his tiny apartment. I spent my hours watching movies and building legos. It felt like his sunshine was inaccessible to me, always blocked out by pain. Even if his arms were still bear-sized and his laugh was still booming, the strength to bike and run and play had left his body a long time ago. He called every night and I could see him every weekend. I was too stupid to know that even this wouldn’t last forever, so I didn’t. My dad is strong you see, but I am weak, and I could not stand to see him get any weaker than this.

Now I am old enough to change out of my favourite pants before I run through dirt and grass, and my hair has been stained by the sun. My Dad is strong. His hair has gone grey, he needs a chair to move, and he may never take me to the field again. But he is strong. He races with me through the halls on his chair, he shares his brain and his brawn with anyone who dares to ask questions. He loves like I am young again. He has given me his strength, so on the days where he can’t call at night, I can still spread his love somehow. 

My arms have grown to give bear hugs, my legs have grown to run, and my voice is booming and full of laughter for anyone who needs some love. I see him whenever I can, and I know now that he cannot stay and love me forever. But I've realized his strength and love will last lifetimes in his stories, my stories, my children's stories, and every single moment we share. Bodies may get old and weak you see, but strength lasts lifetimes. 

MY DAD IS STRONG

Recognize that people are irreplaceable individuals. There is only one of everyone in the world and you need to treat them as such. (DISCLAIMER: this will hurt you in the short term, break-ups and losing friends will be harder than ever but I promise you the melancholic love you’ll feel when you think back on them in time will be worth it)
And yet in that same vein, see how connections aren’t so easily broken. We aren’t connected to each other by one flimsy string but millions apon millions of teeny tiny threads. It’s nearly impossible to break all of them. My dad taught me that metaphor, but I perfected it. (Listen to the people who love you)
Now that you see those little threads that connect us, I want you to keep your eye on them. Always. Let yourself get tangled up in them and trip over them, but know the person on the other side of the threads will always be there to help you untangle them (Appreciate the little things, see the bigger picture)

Once you are ready, go find those people who are only a few threads away from breaking away from you. The people you always catch yourself double checking asking is that really them? When you see them on the bus or maybe the people you shoot quick glares at from across the room. Now, I can’t help you with this part because I don’t know you or the other person and like I said people are irreplaceable. The same goes for the connections we have. So no one else has ever really been in your situation before, which is really scary sometimes but I know you can do this. (Every connection is something never before done. It’s something so rare and beautiful that only you and the other person can ever really share. That makes you super special. Did you know that?)
But I’ll tell you a secret, okay? Real life is messy like and nothing ever goes as planned. And I promise that's okay. You gotta live your life, not mine. I lied really. Connections are only truly broken with time, and you have lots of that. If you run out of it, the past is forever so you can always borrow some of that. Just remember the melancholic love and the threads and how everyone is completely unique and one of a kind and how you gotta treat em like it and you’ll do fine. (I don’t always know what I'm talking about, no one does. Just remember to treat everyone with love and respect and they won’t care if you don’t know what you are saying.)

Don't go looking for a life of happiness but find what makes you happy. I did, it’s people. People make me happy. Can you tell? Then you just gotta live by that happiness. That’s it. (Do your homework, wash your face, kiss girls like you mean it. I’m proud of you.)