"Pookie"....March 4, 2000
Mid Afternoon...
......and in the wake of an overnight visit with my nephew, Pookie, I am this evening enjoying the same with niece, Meris. As I currently type, I am awaiting the mall to close, where The Goddess is inducting ten year old Meris into one of the most revered rituals of womanhood...
...shopping.
It is officially the March Break around this muddy, little wet wedge of the Planet, and given the fact that I have the week off, too, and that The Goddess is currently continuing to enjoy a work hiatus, we decided it would be a great opportunity to spend some quality one on one time with Pookie, Meris, and Ms. Thang,
And since Quincy is still more or less enjoying a Goddess and Highlands fast, we are compelled to take whatever fortune is afforded us.
The kids' latest pilgrimage commenced yesterday with the return of the infamous Boy's Night. Prior to The Goddess's move home, Pookie came over to Unc's house to stay up as late as he wanted, eat whatever and how much of whatever he wanted, play hours upon hours of video games, and make his favourite jello, all combined with impromptu scratching, burping, and farting without the need to exercise the social graces of an excuse me. This is merely a sample of the activities in which we partook during this most sacred event; if I told you any more I'd have to kill you.
Of course, with The Goddess here, Boy's Night in its present incarnation could only go so far, and is not without consequence as a result of estrogen influences:
-slaughtering our meal was waived in favour of Wendy's,It was sacrilege, I know, and what was supposed to be an oh so brief stop for a birthday present for The Goddess' mother turned into a three hour tour. Pookie, in his youthful innocence, bears some of the responsibility, however. Being a man in training, he spent much too much time at Toys-R-Us trying to decide how to buy anything Pokemon for five dollars. Obviously, in light of the mass Pokemon marketing hysteria, there was not much of a decision there to be made, but make one, he just had to do nonetheless.
- grocery shopping just had to be done,
- we had to wipe our feet,
- pyjamas had to be worn,
- our teeth had to be brushed,
- a fresh bed had to await Pookie,
- there were no itches to scratch,
- not a burp was to be belched on snacks of falafel, bean sprouts, and spring water,
- our farts did not smell,
- our jello would not set, but worst of all,
-we had to go to the mall.Pookie's Pokemon-for-five-dollars dilemma, combined with the presence of The Goddess in a commercial zone, was conjuring up fears of being stranded, which ultimately were founded and grounded. Blessed be that there is a large food court in the mall, complete with a smoking section.
His indecisiveness aside, Pookie reminds me so very much of myself at that age. With sandy blonde hair, blue eyes, an unassuming demeanour, a subtle sense of humour, a horrid, untamed temper, reserved intelligence, and predominantly shy, docile nature, I am tempted to change his nickname to Mini-Me...
...but I feel there is far too much subjugation of his identity already taking place.
I am not exactly cognisant of the origins of my proclivity for assigning nicknames to my sister's children. The names I call them here in this journal are the same ones I use to address them in person. I cannot precisely remember how it came that I started calling my nephew Pookie, but it has several variations: Pookie-Pot-Pie and Pookie-Schmoo are just two of them. Perhaps it is a deep sense of nostalgia and loss for my paternal grandfather that I refer to the kids by another name. As a very young child, we would visit my father's parents infrequently, but every time my grandfather would call my sister and me by a name other than our own, all the while insisting that it had been our name all along. With a youngster's innocence, this name banter would always make me laugh, especially when he would come up with a different name for each visit. I never knew whether I would be Charlie, George, or Willie when next I saw him.
It is a grave shame that he did not live long enough for either of us to grow out of that great little game.
While referring to Pookie as Pookie may be carrying on what tradition I can, this weekend has taught me that other interaction with Pookie need be sensitive, well thought out, and far from familial norms.
I was having a nap early in the afternoon after having been up with him since 6:00am. He was playing Playstation with The Goddess, showing her the ropes with as much authority as his almost nine years can muster. While the game was rated general, there was some stomping on the head of innocent forest creatures, which brought on feigned shock from The Goddess. Pookie's response to her innocent chiding was,
"I know...men are miserable creatures, aren't they?".
There was nothing feigned in The Goddess' shock this time.
Nor mine when I arose a half hour later and she told me about it.
Had Pookie been making a sarcastic comment, or an attempt at humour, I do not think that any notice would have been made of his comment. Nevertheless, given his timorous, undemonstrative nature, almost everything he mutters is bound to be of some significance. And if an eight year old little boy, this innately compassionate, gentle spirit articulates a belief that men are miserable creatures, it is horrifically, tragically profound...
... not to mention something repeated verbatim.
Since age and wisdom have taught me, albeit painfully and sorrowfully, that there is little I can do at the source of such displaced, transferred bitterness, I have decided to focus my energies on Pookie himself.
The irony is not lost on me, however. First is that innocuous, temperate Pookie believes his future self to be a miserable creature. Second, he and I both know some women who are, and will most likely never stop swimming in denile.
I fear the dire consequences for an adult Pookie to internalize such vacuous, generalized, learned attitudes about his own gender. He could grow to have a deep resentment towards women in the belief that if those that surround him do not care enough about honouring his maleness, why should he give a rat's ass about respecting the opposite gender? Even worse, he could mature to despise himself, as a result of his kind, gentle spirit being quashed in an enveloping fog of oppression; which is exactly what happened to this unassuming, kind soul growing up in an house surrounded by ever competing dominant personalities. It took me one suicide attempt and many subsequently arduous years to start trying to nurture myself again, and I am far from perfecting the craft.
I want to teach Pookie that there are more kind, decent, honourable men out there than there are abusers.
I want to teach him that there are many jaded, spiteful, bitter women out there, and not all are our sisters.
I want Pookie to learn that how we play the hands that are dealt us is all about choice...our choice.
Sometimes we give away all of our hearts only to find we end up stuck with the bitch.
If we surround ourselves with hearts, we often end up winning them all.
And if ever I need a familial comrade, well...
I choose you, Pookie-Schmoo....
....Blessed Be...
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