Discussion

The Scream Heard ‘Round the ‘Verse!

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

I have officially completed my very first horror convention, guys! It was an excellent time, with plenty of horror merch and great things to enjoy. Let’s dive in.

In case you missed the announcements here and on my social media pages, I attended and vended my books at Screamiverse Expo in Roanoke, Virginia. First and foremost, the mere essence of being there with hundreds of like-minded horror-lovers was simply awesome. Everywhere I looked, there were spooky decorations and products, skulls and witchiness, simply amazing. Needless to say, I was definitely in my element.

One of the very first things I got to do when we got there Saturday morning was meet the one and only Eddie Deezen! Deezen, known for being the geeky, nerdy, know-it-all from so many dozens of movies, shows, and more, was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. Of course, being a huge fan of Grease (the first place I saw him), but an even bigger fan of the Critters movies, I was quite starstruck. Amanda was as well, mostly because of Deezen’s portrayal of Gibby Norton. We are huge Scooby Doo fans, too, naturally. Eddie took the time out of his morning to speak to us before the doors were open to the general public, smiling and talking to us for a good few minutes. Likewise, when I went back later to get an autograph and photo, I accidentally interrupted his lunch, and he was more than fine, telling me he was happy to talk to me.

The event itself was only in its second year, so many things were new to this year’s run, including a feature called Campfire Tales. This was a chance for some of the attending authors to take the stage and share bits of their work, or a story that was important to them and their craft. I got to go to one of the stages in Berglund Center and read some of my work with about ten other authors. It was a great way for all of us to get a taste for each other’s work and styles, as well as just enjoy the horror we were there to celebrate. I read the prologue to Maverip, and got good feedback. One of the other authors even told me I should narrate because he said my reading voice was calming and peaceful. I definitely appreciated that. It was great to hear and see the excitement of other authors reading work they loved, too. You could really tell from most of them just how important horror is to them.

Possibly one of the coolest things I got to do while there was see the fully restored Green Goblin head from Maximum Overdrive. As a lifelong Stephen King fan and a diehard AC/DC lover, that movie is pretty much the top of the chain for me. Getting to see, touch, and have my picture taken with the iconic Happy Toys mascot was an experience like no other. Tim Shockey, the owner of the piece, is the man who saved the goblin from a dump, where it was unceremoniously deposited in the mid-80s – a travesty and offense of the highest order that should never be accepted. I was shocked to realize how bad a shape it was in when Shockey got his hands on it. If you don’t know about that story, definitely check it out here.

Amanda, who is absolutely not a horror fan, had a good time just being in the environment, if she did have a bit of hesitation about some of the scary nature of various displays, etc. Her favorite part was easily Eddie Deezen and the animals that were there. She took several photos with the goblin head, and even held a hissing cockroach. I’m proud!

Overall, even though it was not one of my best selling events, the convention was a wonderful time, and it gives me high hopes for the similar ones I’m signed up for through the rest of the year. If you missed Screamiverse, don’t be too sad – you still have two chances to come see me and grab your copy of any of my print books this week alone!

Thursday April 23, I will be doing a local author night at Buchanan County Library in Grundy, Va., and Saturday, April 25 (MY BIRTHDAY!), I will be one of the authors doing a reading and signing at The Hatter’s Bookshop in Princeton, WV. I am super excited about these events, and I think there are going to be a huge amount fun events coming (both scheduled and still in the air), so make sure you stop by my Events and Appearances page to stay on top of the list!

When Anger Won’t Do

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

Everyone loses their shit sometimes. That’s just common knowledge. It’s not always pretty, and it definitely isn’t easy to handle, but it’s something we have all had to face at one time or another. Whether we are the person losing it, or someone is losing it on us, it is not a phase of life that brings much happiness. I’ve been dealing with some of that myself lately, and it has not been the most pleasant by any means.

Being a teacher, especially in the world of vaping, technology, and almost no accountability, is not an easy task. Day in and day out I am met with students who think they can use AI or Google to answer their questions and do their work for them – or who just think they don’t have to do it at all. Naturally, that is quite frustrating. Growing up in an era when computers were up and coming and most, if not all, work was done on paper until late high school, it’s very different to see such a disconnect from students and their work. I never would have had such a lackadaisical attitude about assignments and the future when I was that age. I can’t even talk myself into it now.

Much like students with an attitude about their work, there is a wealth of people in the world with a lack of compassion or care about those around them and how their actions affect the rest of us. Going from one place to another and seeing the amount of hate that exists in the world drives me to truly want to escape into my own shell of relaxed peace, whether that is at home with my wife or going somewhere with my wife. From one day to the next, she is the person I truly find my peace and happiness in, and there is not a minute of the day when I would change that.

Likewise, knowing the consistently rising prices we are all facing despite getting little or nothing better in return is not an easy pill to swallow. You work yourself to the bone from sunup to sunset and get no further ahead for it, no matter how many moving pieces get added to the chessboard that is life.

All of these things can be quite frustrating. Anger builds up every time the things you want out of life are hindered by the responsibilities that you see others shirking. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to recognize that is not something everyone can just ignore. Not should you. But anger, especially when misdirected, is not the answer.

As I said earlier, I’ve been coming to terms with some issues lately, with a lot of fuel keeping that fire lit and building. I have taken home more from my job than I ever have before, as I see teenagers who make little to no effort to improve their futures, who think trouble and failure are things to laugh at rather than avoid or rectify. In other words, I guess, I am truly and fully graduated into adulthood. I know what waits for these kids after they walk across that stage, and it scares me how little they seem to be grasping it.

All of that being said, I have to reach my point before it gets lost in my soapbox rant. You can’t control the world around you. You can’t control how people act, what they think, what things cost, how we are expected to live and work and survive. The only thing we can control is how we react to the situation at hand. It is a message the great minds of the world have been trying to tell us for as long as cogent thought has existed. From a religious standpoint, the Christian Bible speaks a lot about how one shouldn’t be angry, shouldn’t act in anger, shouldn’t let emotions control them. From a literary standpoint Tolkien told us we can’t control the world around or the situations we are put in, but can only “decide what to do with the time that is given us.”

I could go on, but I feel like those are solid examples of my point. To further it, I will mention that when anger takes over and we say or do things that are unnecessary, when we lash out at those who love us, it does nothing but hurt others. It doesn’t fix the issues. It shouldn’t be a common thread in anyone’s life that you have to explode before you realize you’ve gone too far. Mindfulness is a thing. It might not come easy to us all. I’m still learning it myself. The biggest thing is to recognize when anger is no longer going to serve – and the answer is probably much sooner than you think.

Giving Appalachia a Voice

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

As an Appalachian author, teacher, and lover of culture and literature, it is always very important to recognize the proper way to celebrate that culture. All too often, there are representations of Appalachian culture and life that play ridiculously deep into harmful stereotypes like ignorance, incest, violence, and more. Portraying an entire group of people as less than because of where they are from is simply asinine. It is honestly one of the things that is wrong with the world, and always has been. But how do we change it?

It isn’t easy, to say the least. To do my part I have always tried to represent Appalachian culture in a positive way through both my writing and my instruction. This year, I am getting a real chance to help prepare others to do the same.

The Book Cellar in Abingdon, Va has allowed and encouraged me to utilize my writing workshops to facilitate positive Appalachian writing and research in a 5-part series of workshops entitled “Building an Appalachian Narrative” (get your tickets here) that will give us a chance to discuss the importance of making a real effort to positively and properly represent Appalachia in writing. With workshops that exemplify things like doing proper research, avoiding cliche and misrepresentation, and using imagery to capture the beauty and culture of the region, my hope is that this series will offer everyone who attends the tools to be a strong positive voice for an under and misrepresented area.

Granted, some literature does require a harsher hand to get a proper message across – I am actually working on a few stories that do offer a rough view of the negative side of the area – for the most part, positive representation is very achievable. That is the core responsibility of writing about a specific location, people, culture, or religion. Accountability must be held in the utmost importance. For anyone interested in jumping in on those workshops, just follow the link above for more info. You can also check my social media and/or The Book Cellar, Va for the details on each workshop. The first one is this Thursday (3/26). I hope to see you there!

Invest in What Matters

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

Greetings from the land of Daylight Saving Time, everyone. It has been a slow adjustment over the last couple of days, but I may be back on track by Wednesday, who knows. At least I have energy drinks and all the writing I can stand to keep me going, right? I have been hard at work on Mother Mine lately, and it is shaping up to be one of my creepier offerings in some respects. If you want to learn more about that, stay tuned here and be sure to jump over to my newsletter for some snippets and samples as the book progresses.

In addition to writing hard on this and other new and familiar works, I am currently prepping one of my Eddie Blake-related short stories for release very soon – you will want to check that one out! My plan is to have the release for that story set for Saturday, March 14, which just happens to be the date of my next event! I am super excited about this event, as it takes place at the Tazewell Public Library. It is going to be quite surreal to have a book event at the very library that helped instill and nurture my love of reading as a kid. I went to this library as often as I could possibly get there, and I have memories on top of memories of books and events there. It’s such a facet of making me who I am that I can’t wait to hopefully give back to the place in some small way.

Speaking of events, that is one of the things I have been focusing on very intensely so far this year. For the last handful of years, I have been doing almost strictly local events, which often are centered around Appalachian crafts as a whole, as opposed to the specific products or genres I work in. This year, however, I (and my amazing manager/wife/better half) have been finding a wealth of horror-themed events in which to throw my hat. The first of these is going to be Screamiverse Expo in Roanoke, April 18-19. This event is geared entirely toward horror nerds like myself, and will be an amazing time. Horror actors such at Felissa Rose and Brett Wagner will be there – not to mention the original Green Goblin head from Maximum Overdrive! I am thrilled to be a part of this event and several others throughout the year, but it has been something I had to truly dedicate myself to – with an immense amount of support and encouragement from Amanda, of course.

The local events I am used to doing have been either free or comparatively cheap in relation to the bigger, horror-themed ones I am diving into this year. Even so, those events are very hit or miss. It is fairly common knowledge, I assume, that a lot of people in the Bible Belt may not necessarily gravitate to my brand of horror and literature, least of all those who go to craft shows where Bluegrass, knife-making, and wood carving demonstrations abound. In the event I sold little or even nothing at these craft shows, it was a loss, of course, but one I could handle if it helped put my name in people’s minds. These bigger events, however, have a much heftier fee involved with being a part of them. That is a bit scary, to say the least, when I look at some events in the past where I did not sell well or at all. Like I said, though, an Appalachian craft fair is not always going to lend itself to a horror and fantasy author, whether he/she is local or not.

Horror cons like Screamiverse and Nashville Celebrity Comic Con (Oct. 9-11 this year) will likely have much more of my intended audience present, though. Knowing tons of horror-loving folks will fill the venue during these events gives me an extraordinary sense of hope that they will be wonderful for my brand and for bringing my name to new audiences. That’s where the real motivation comes in, for me. Yes, these are huge investments, but it comes down to the idea of truly seeking out your audience.

All too often, authors and artists may think they can just produce work and their audience will find them, and in some cases, this may be true. But, when you are a creative, it is important that you believe in yourself. Push yourself. Invest in yourself. You have to see that you are worth so much more than just sitting there and hoping the wind blows people into your frame of view. As terrifying as it is, bringing yourself to those new horizons, those bigger events, investing money you may have to heavily budget and account for in the hopes that it elevates your audience and attention to your work in new ways is sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself and your art. Speaking from that point of view of the scared artist who is hoping these events pan out, I also feel a huge sense of potential, of hope, for these events and for the connections I can make there. At the end of the day, just like with the local events I have attended – regardless of their overall sales – as long as I am having fun and making the most of the experience with my amazing wife by my side, it will definitely be worth it.

I think that may be one of the most important and one of the hardest things for an indie creator to accept. Self-investment is not something that comes naturally to many of us. If you, like me, have ever been told that your stories or art just “aren’t for” some people or that certain events or groups won’t like what you do, it can be hard to bounce back from the immediate thought that no matter where you go, you are going to run into that opposition. It makes it hard to feel confident in spending hundreds of dollars to buy your spot at an event where your audience could be waiting just around the corner – especially when you’ve done events where you have sat there all day and waited for a single sale, a single bit of interest, and gone home empty-handed. Or, rather, I guess it would be worse than empty-handed, because you are going home with every bit of art you left with. It hasn’t found a home. And you haven’t found a new audience.

But that’s part of the game, right? You have to be an active participant in your life, in your marketing, in your sales potential. Granted, nothing about being an indie creator is “about the sales.” I never once put pen to paper with the thought that it would make me X amount of money. I want people to read my work. To experience it. I want my words to live in people’s heads long after they finish the book, and resonate with them in ways they simply have to talk to others about. That’s the real dream. To be remembered. So you have to make the investments, friends. You have to throw caution to the wind at least one good time and see if something that seems too big or too wild could be EXACTLY what you need. I have no idea how well these events are going to do for me this year, but it will put me in my element. I will have the chance to meet hundreds, if not thousands, or like-minded, horror-loving people, and that in itself is going to be freaking awesome.

Destiny

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

Do you believe in fate/destiny?

I absolutely do. I have been given so many examples of fate, destiny, purpose, universal alignment, whatever you want to call it in my life that I couldn’t imagine not believing.

From my own story and life, to the way my wife and I reunited I know I am destined to be exactly where I am in this moment. Far more than the possibility of things just “happening” in coincidence, I think a universal plan (I do choose to believe it is God’s plan, but I do not and will not force that belief on others), makes the most sense.

As a caveat to that, I do believe things can disrupt, slow, or event prevent some fated events from happening. Perhaps not forever, but definitely at their originally intended times. I believe every action we take, every choice we make, every ounce of life we live has an effect on how and when our destiny will unfurl. At the end of the day, we know somewhere inside of us what we’re meant for. The real task is just being brave enough to chase it.

The Toxic Goths and Wuthering Heights

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

I will be the first to admit that it is a bit of a shame that I was in my 30s before I really sat down to read the epic that is Wuthering Heights. I have long been obsessed with period literature and, of course, I have done extensive work in the era of Gothic literature of all kinds. This is one that, somehow, repeatedly slipped out of my grasp, though.

With the upcoming release of the newest cinematic version of the film in all it’s Hollywood hyper-sexed looking glory, I felt it was high time to rectify that mistake. I have owned a copy of the book for a while, discovered sometime last year (or earlier) in my thrifting missions, so I dug it out and dove in around the first of the month.

I was immediately drawn in by Bronte’s writing, the dark moors and the brusque mannerisms of our good master Heathcliff bringing me immediately into the fold. Not knowing fully what to expect, the reading went fairly quickly, but I want to be very up front in saying that I found it very difficult to like … well … pretty much anyone.

From Catherine’s ever-eager and dismissively bratty nature, to Heathcliff’s very embodiment of toxic masculinity and downright brutish human evil, there was no one I could root for here. The love itself that both of them felt was one of the most powerful of literary sentiments I have read in quite some time, of course. Bronte did an amazing job of putting two unlikeable people into a situation where neither of them could win for causing each other, and themselves, to lose. Catherine’s affirmation that she could not exist without Healthcliff, despite his brutish nature and his downright blatant insistence that his own pride was more important than being there with and for her for years is intense, but also shows a lot of what is wrong with the classic literary depiction of love.

All too often in books (as well as films and, let’s face it, life itself) our female lead is drawn into a sort of infatuation with a person who is simply garbage. Why it becomes a sort of romantic rampart that women (or anyone) should cast themselves upon the blade of someone who treats them horribly, I can not fathom. It is not a good quality in a lover or a significant other that every time you speak to them it becomes a fight where you grow so faint your heart threatens to stop. Yet, time and time again, this is the standard literary love is held to. Why?

To turn in a different direction before this post takes on a life of its own filled with lectures no one wants, let me jump into Bronte’s language. It was, of course, nearly 200 years ago, but one thing that did throw me off was her repeated leaps into Joseph’s brogue. Vernacular is wonderful, and it should be held to a high standard in writing, but it does not have to be done quite to that extent. As I said, I know it was 200 years ago, but that is something that pulled from the story a lot. Any time there was an extended bit of dialogue from Joseph, or, rather, Ellen’s repetition of it, the use of heavy vernacular and nearly unintelligible language on the page made me pause several times to work out what was being said. Could it have been any different for readers when the book was fresh?

As I said, vernacular is incredibly important, and I use it myself. I understand how nice it is for readers of Southern literature to recognize a nice twang on the page, or for a Cockney reader to recognize their own twists of phrase, but for entire paragraphs to look so out of place? It was a certain grounder for me.

The story itself, coming to us in the form of a relay from our narrator who had it in turn relayed to him from someone who lived it or read it, was honestly like a bit of a telephone game. In its own right, that puts me in the mind of a bit of a potential unreliable narrator. I am a bit of a sucker for an unreliable narrator, as many of you know, so I do eat that up. With Lockwood admitting that he was feverish during much of the retelling (as well as the general malaise of being in a strange house during a winter storm in his initial “supernatural” encounter with Catherine), there is much to be said about the entire story being false or blown out of proportion. I am aware that, of course, would likely not be much of a popular opinion given the historic love of the book, but the idea that this man had a polite old housemaid telling him a story of her former masters – or even a story that she herself makes up to calm a sick man – and he blew it even further out of proportion in his retelling makes me absolutely salivate to think of.

Heathcliff. There is so much I can say about the man whom this book centers around. From a wayward youth who never quite fits in, to a man who does his best to seem the devil’s own plaything in adulthood, he oozes toxic behavior. I would say toxic masculinity, but I don’t think even Heathcliff fits quite that pathetic of a bill. He has a huge chip on his shoulder through most of the book, being more than willing to spite anyone and everyone, including his beloved Catherine, no matter what they are doing or saying to or about him. No one is good enough for him, because they make him feel he is not good enough for them more often than not. Granted, this does not excuse his behavior in any way. For, if nothing else, being treated poorly by others should show him exactly how NOT to act, but I digress.

As I said earlier, even his precious Cathy is not free from the evil Heathcliff works in the world, from his abandonment of her, to his overbearing weight of hatred that comes to Wuthering Heights and Thrushcross Grange on his mysterious return. Heathcliff is not necessarily deserving of the pain and mistreatment he is given as a lad, but he absolutely deserves every ounce of pain and punishment rendered him as an adult. To his treatment of Cathy even on her deathbed, to the way he mistreats Isabella (not even mentioning the underlying insinuations of SA and who knows what other abuse she suffers at his hand before her escape), and the way he treats every single young person in the book, he is simply an asshole. Plain and simple. King jerk of the world of jerks. That’s not to say I don’t enjoy him. He has his moments, not withstanding. Specifically his unknown background and the fact that he does somehow feel Catherine’s spirit close to him after her death. From wandering on the moors, to frequenting graveyards at night, there are redeeming elements of creep factor that I do appreciate.

Jumping on to the discussion of Catherine herself, the fact that her love was not strong enough for her to stand up for Heathcliff as a child. Or wait for him. Or look for him. Or ask her husband not to be an ass to him. Or any of the other things she could have done that might also have altered the evil man’s own reaction to the world and the people around him… it was somehow strong enough that she haunted his every moment and made him all the more miserable and sanctimonious after her death – even seemingly showing up to visually haunt him on his last day. She herself was always the prissy, bratty, horrible example of a spoiled child who refuses to budge for the world, but expects the world to bend and break for her, so it is no wonder she got her just desserts. I feel no sympathy for her, frankly.

Finally, coming full circle, the main thing I want to say is that I did enjoy the book. Despite my misgivings of the characters, the hyped up love, the disgusting character development and the painful language… It’s a book I will likely read again. While, I recognize that most high school readers would likely care nothing for the book, I do hope that I can fit it into a college course on Gothic Literature one day. Overall, the book stands the test of time in many ways, and is definitely deserving of study. I don’t know that I agree with the claims that it depicts the love story that all other love stories should be built from, but I can respect the care Heathcliff and Cathy had for each other. Maybe they just needed someone to tell them how to show it.

A Year After Knowing

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

It’s odd, writing this blog post, to be honest. Through most of my life, I spent more time than I should wondering about my biological dad. Where is he? What is he doing? Does he think about me? Does it even matter? Then, a little over a year ago, I got a message from a cousin that he was dead. No more chances at reconnecting. No more half-assed excuses on the off chance I did get up with him. No more confusion about whether the numbers or addresses I had were no longer valid or if I was being ignored. In essence, if he was in the ground, at least I knew where he was.

That’s a harsh reality, sure, but from a man who had never had the security of knowing where one half of his biological makeup was, it did bring me some sick comfort. I would never again have to look at a passing car and wonder if HE was in it. Never again get a hang-up call and wonder if my answers were on the other end.

What has replaced those curiosities, however, is a certainty that I won’t get those answers. My biological grandmother and uncle have made no efforts to reach out to me since the funeral I attended (where one wasn’t in attendance and one had to look at the guest book to even know who I was). Not that I really expected to hear anything.

Sure, in a perfect world, there would have been some letter he never sent, or some journal entry that talked about the choices he made. Maybe he had some explanation that was supposed to be sent to me after his death. But, no. This isn’t a spy movie. He wasn’t a man who explained himself. He was just… a bad person.

I don’t know that he stole, or murdered, or did anything we usually think classifies someone as a bad person. Nothing like that. But, I do know what he did. He lied to his child, abandoned his child. Handed over the reins to a single mother who did her best, as best she could, at least. But, as an adult, a teacher, a grown man who understands responsibilities and mental health, I can safely say he was not a good man. The choices he made may have been what he, in some way, thought to be best, and maybe they were. I have heard from more than one person with knowledge of that side of my family tree that him being a part of my life would almost certainly have prevented me from being a successful human. Maybe that is the case. I don’t know.

What I do know is what it taught me. There is never an excuse for making a child think they have done something to push you away. There is no reason good enough to choose to leave behind a kid who knows no better than to rely on you, to trust you. Disappearing from someone’s life may seem like a valid option to an extremely selfish person, but that only shows how truly self-centered you are. No matter the cause, no matter the outcome, responsibilities run deeper than that for a truly good person.

I think that is one reason I strive so hard to show my students that I am there for them. I teach in a region where poverty is the norm, where single-parent households are increasingly more common, and where some people do not know their parents at all. Because of this, I make it a point to be reliable. Whether that is through grading, lessons, or being there to listen when they are having a bad day. No student leaves my classroom thinking they are unimportant if I am doing my job right.

Should my wife and I have children, the same will go for them. No matter the lack of closure, the lack of “this is how you do things” type lessons I got from my biological dad, no matter the one-sided nature of my female-centered upbringing, I know how to be different. Scotty taught me, through omission, the exact way to be sure no child I have will feel like I did.

When I started my teaching journey almost 6 years ago, I knew the first thing I needed to do was work on those elements of trust and care. Now, teaching at my Alma Mater, I can remember (and actually work with) some of the teachers who showed me that same respect and care. It makes a difference. A year after realizing I will never know why Scotty made the decisions he did, I feel all the more confident in being the person I am. I feel I have made the right choice in building those elements of care and trust with my wife, my friends, my students, my coworkers, anyone who may need to know – even just for one day or just one minute – that they are not alone.

That’s what it all comes down to, right? No matter who we are, what we are going through, everything seems like it is just a little more bearable if we know we aren’t alone. That’s why I’m here. And I always will be for anyone who needs me.

The Age of Innocence

/ Damean Mathews, Author / 2 Comments

As another school year is slowly winding to a close, life moves back into the familiar mode of Summer (and yes, that’s Summer the holiday, not just summer the season). One of the good things about being a teacher, of course, is that we also get to enjoy some of the freedoms we can all remember from our youths – and it is a highly coveted thing. Even now I can remember the way things altered as the school year wound to a close. After all, as a kid, that’s the way life is split for you, typically. School and not school. Summer and not Summer. Play and not play. It’s just a fact of life.

The thing many of us never wanted to think about, though, is what happens when that separation is over. What life is going to look like when Summer just becomes summer, when time changes from being a split between school and not school. Apart from the days when we rested in the satisfaction of having that dichotomy we have only the nostalgia of looking back at “the good old days.” That’s where I find myself today, lunch block slowly slipping away minute by sleepy minute. I’m not alone in today’s reminiscence, though.

Outside my classroom windows there is a small lawn where the younger children in another section of our school have recently been going out to play on warmer days. Today they are out en masse, and my classroom and I have found ourselves immersed in watching their antics. From my students, between the ages of 14 and 17, myself in my mid-30s, and my school’s SSC who is older than me, we have all been drawn into their games.

Sun shining on the bright green lawn, clouds passing over just enough to provide a break for the eyes, if not the skin, the children who have been granted their momentary pre-noon freedom engaged in activities ranging from dodgeball, one-armed baseball, tag, sidewalk drawing, and their own games that seemed to combine some combination of all the above. It was just as amusing, for me, to observe the way we all reacted to their spectacle. We laughed when one of them got a win, or took a rolling tumble to avoid getting hit with the ball. Arms shot up in victory, while none of them showed the standard and dreaded playground separation tactics that plague older students. It was, in the words of our SSC, innocence.

It’s no secret that I do teach at-risk kids, that I myself could have been considered an at-risk kid based on my mother’s income and my status as a child of a single parent household. So when these students, whom many stereotypically assume are troubled and trouble-making, are taking the time to bond and enjoy life while living simultaneously through the playground games of others, it says a lot. Students, who sometimes have to live their lives on guard for themselves and their loved ones for fear of injury or worse, sitting in a classroom and talking amongst themselves while reflecting on the times they had in those playground settings truly puts things in perspective.

I see it as a highly important and therapeutic activity, in all honesty. The fact this allowed students who have to build walls in order to keep themselves safe to drop those barriers and look back on times of innocence means a lot to me as a teacher and a nostalgic person. Most, if not all, of my students know my room is a safe space anyway, and this secured that even more. I take pride in my efforts to meet my students where they are coming from in an intellectual, educational, and social-emotional standpoint. I ask them how they are doing, and they know that is not just a nicety. Seeing the way the games of others put a smile on all of our faces today, it really made me think that humanity as a whole is truly striving for the freedom of a child. The unspent innocence so many take for granted without even realizing they are doing so.

When we were children we couldn’t have imagined the way our lives would alter by the time we left school. That long-distant future was as unreal to us as waking up one day with no sun in the sky. Teaching high school seniors for four years has allowed me to see that change first-hand with others, and it’s impressive how well some handle it. Some students rise to the occasion with plans and schemes galore and provide themselves with failsafes to protect them in the event life gives them a turn for the worse. Others… Others slip on the cap and gown and venture out into the final great Summer with little more than hopes and dreams in their reserves to get them through.

Regardless of the way we approached the end of those playground days, the truth of life comes into play in just how much we allow ourselves the freedom to observe and enjoy the innocence of youth. Wherever life has taken us, it is important to remember those days of fun. The bonds of youth, of innocent life, of going outside and truly just enjoying being alive, are something none of should ever forget. The blessed simplicity of just living for the moment, not having to concern ourselves with what bills need to be paid, what stresses await us when we look through the checkbook or get back home, the idea that we are all just able to enjoy spending time with our friends or even alone is truly something to savor.

I know it isn’t always easy, but I recommend taking a moment to do just observe the life of youth. Enjoy a moment of watching children play without judgement, look at animals lounging in the sun, watch a river flow, anything that pulls you out of the stresses of life. We all deserve a moment to remember how good life should be. That’s the truth of our situations in the world. We have, most of us, forgotten that life is supposed to be enjoyable. It shouldn’t be competition and anger, stress and work, bills and class status. It should just… be. But until that’s something we can make happen, the next best thing might be to just relax. And, hey, while we’re at it, why not find a playground that’s empty and have some fun of our own?

Coming to Terms

/ Damean Mathews, Author / Leave a comment

I went to the visitation service for my biological father last night. I’m not at all sure what I expected to happen there, but it was certainly not the way things went. Or maybe it was.

For those of you who don’t know, I was raised in a single parent household because my father made his own choices. Those choices did not involve me. Through the years I have made an abundance of attempts to reach out to him and create some sort of relationship, against the advice and better judgement of pretty much everyone around me. For a little while at one point it worked. When I was 12 I convinced my mother to take me to his adoptive parents house and ask about him. This resulted in his nephew taking us directly to his house and we began forming what I hoped would be a real friendship, if nothing else.

It may have lasted a year. During that time we went to a few movies, ate a couple of meals. he bought me an action figure or two and I paid for at least one of those movies with saved allowance. Of course, toward the end of this period of time as we were driving him back to his home he asked to stop at a convenience store and borrowed money from me for a beer. I probably should have known.

Not long after that the contact stopped. Again, his choice, not mine. He stopped answering calls and letters. Faded into the distance again with no explanation or excuses.

For five years I didn’t know if he was alive or dead until we received a letter from the state that he had been summoned to court for back child support. The state’s choice. Not ours. So, at the age of 17, I convinced my mother to go with me to the courthouse and see if he showed. Surprisingly he did. He was told to pay, said he would, walked out the door with barely a glance in my direction, but I followed. I shouted for him and watched as he thought about walking on and getting in the car as if he hadn’t heard me.

But he stopped. He turned around and came back with his shark-toothed grin and made me feel like he was happy to see me. More empty promises of future contact, blank apologies for a lack of communication, and we went our separate ways.

I never heard from him again.

For nearly 18 years I went without a single word from him. Nearly as long without any word about him, save the mention of him given by his brother after the man found me online. I could have had a child of my own in that time, and watched them grow to be the age I had been the last time I laid eyes on the man who contributed to my DNA. I know damn well I would have treated that child a lot better than I had ever been treated.

Several times during those 18 years I attempted contact again, including one shameful time when I went to his house and knocked on his door. As I looked at the window I saw him looking back out at me before the woman he lived with opened the door and told me he wasn’t there.

I told myself that was it. I had done more than enough. But, it didn’t stop me from sending some last ditch letters. Or from making a phone call after my grandmother passed. A phone call that asked me to leave a message on a voicemail that had his name on it. I told him I wanted nothing from him, no money, no goods, I just wanted to speak to him. Even once.

I won’t even pretend I was surprised when the call wasn’t returned. Or that the next time I tried the number it had been disconnected/my number was blocked.

That time it really was over. I stopped trying. I won’t pretend I hadn’t thought about trying again, but I hadn’t. I had no clue if the man was alive or dead, if he had other children, if he thought about me. I knew nothing. Until I got the message last week that he was actually dead.

If you haven’t lost a parent, I’m glad. It has been something of a whirlwind for me, and nothing like the standard I’m sure. In talking to friends who have reached out, I do realize how many of us have a non-standard (read non-glamorous, non-Hollywood, non-cookie-cutter) relationship with our parents, so I definitely know many of you will know what I mean. A parent who has been nothing but a repeated disappointment, who you truly had no relationship with despite your best efforts, suddenly passing, is still quite a shock.

As I said, I went to the service last night. A more than two hour drive from where I work and nearly the same back to my house. To say I was nervous is an understatement. I have always hated funeral homes and hospitals, and this made that even worse. But I went. I’ve asked myself why it was important that I do so, and others have wondered the same, and I think the full truth is exactly what I said from the start. This is the only time I have had full control over the way this relationship ended. I never got to say my goodbyes. I never got to be the one to really choose how things would progress, or whether they would progress.

Sure, I had decided to stop trying to reach out, but that was really tantamount to deciding to stop pounding a closed door and let my bloodied knuckles heal. It was already sealed. I merely gave in to the choice of others. No, this time I was the one who had the final say. So I went to the service. It took a while to work up the gumption to walk in, but I did it. Amanda and I were 2 of the 7 people there for the man who had isolated himself from his flesh and blood. I will never be able to thank her enough for putting herself through that for me, for supporting me in what she knew was a lost cause. Having her by my side was the only thing that kept me from losing my grip, as it so often is.

When I went to the casket he looked so different from the man I remember, the man who I have maybe three pictures of, that I was worried we were in the wrong chapel. But it was him. His mother was there. My grandmother. Whom I hadn’t seen in probably 25 or more years. She had to subtly walk to the sign-in book to see if I was who she thought I was, but she came up to me and spoke. Told me she knew the effort I had put in, but chalked it up with the true Appalachian “you know how he was.”

No, ma’am. I do not know how he was. He made sure of that. You all made sure of that. I know next to nothing about the man. Even the things my own mother can tell me about the father of her child is little more than three decade old facts. How much of that changed? How much different was the stranger in that box who made sure I never had a chance to know any version of him from the 22 year old she had once cared for? I have no idea. And, given the likelihood those who have chosen not to reach out in the past will continue on that trend, I may never know.

Not once did my grandmother ask about me, my life, my wellbeing. Would it matter to her? No. Just shrugging off the way her son had behaved the same way he shrugged off his own child. I can’t pretend I’m not upset by it all, but I finally am at a point where I can truly say I did everything I possibly could. I will be able to go to sleep tonight and every night knowing I never closed the door on my father, though I likely should have. At the end of the day I was able to say goodbye on my own terms, something that feels as close to satisfaction regarding the matter that I may ever get.

Confusion and Grief

/ Damean Mathews, Author / 3 Comments

Last night, I found out my biological father died this week. No way to sugarcoat that information, really. I hadn’t spoken to the man in nearly 18 years, not for lack of trying. I sought him out time and time again, wanting to have a relationship with him, no matter how small it was. I put myself out there and gave it my all to try and be a son to a man who didn’t want to be my father. I’ve never gotten to share my accomplishments, my sadnesses, my truths, and myself with the man whose DNA I share. I might never have even known he was gone because of these decisions on his part.

I am forever grateful to the cousin who made sure I knew, also. A lifetime of potential memories gone. A lifetime spent wondering why I wasn’t good enough, if there was something wrong with me, if I would ever even know why he wanted nothing to do with me. Now I guess I will never know the answers.

I think that is the strangest part of the whole thing for me. I have thought about going to the last place I knew he lived and seeking him out, or pushing harder to find the relatives on that side of the family that are still alive (which, according to his obituary – in which my name is not even correct, I might add – is nearly everyone except his father), but ultimately have chosen against it. For the last few years, I honestly didn’t even know if he was still alive, with Covid running rampant as it did. Until his brother found me on Facebook last year and at least confirmed that much for me, that is.

Even until I got the obituary and saw the face of the man I barely remember looking back at me, some part of me said my cousin must be mistaken. But there it was. The first line in the obituary read that he died with his daughter by his side. A daughter I’ve never met. Not a biological sibling, I know now, but nonetheless, someone who mattered enough to him for him to raise. To stick by. To live for. Someone I never even knew existed. Did she know about me?

Did he ever mention me? Could she hold the answers to why she got a father figure out of him and I never did? Do I even want to ask?

Those questions and more have been flooding my mind for the last 16 or so hours, and I am no closer to deciding if they are even worth asking. I have a whole side of my family whom I know nothing about. My father’s obituary said he loved God, loved to cook, was a great dad. Two out three ain’t bad… we have those in common at least. Is there anything else we share?

There is a service for Scotty Wayne Osbourne on Monday. A time for those who knew him to grieve him, to say goodbye to him, to pay their respects for a man they now have to build a life without. Do I fit that mold? I know next to nothing about him. I only know life without him in it. But I’ve never gotten to say goodbye. I never knew I would have to. Until it was too late. Just like this time.