Every so often, I visit my son's room. He's 18, you see, and shares information in monosyllabic grunts. I stop by his room to catch up on what's going on in his life.
Did I mention that he's an artist? An amazing one, in my humble little opinion. He works a lot with stencils that he cuts out of tagboard with an exacto knife and then spray paints. The stuff he can do with spray paint is pretty amazing. To me.
Apparently, the artistic life precludes any sort of personal hygiene. And don't even think about finding value in organization or uncluttered surfaces.
Once in a while, he brings down a few baskets filled with jeans, black t shirts and white socks. I wash them because that was the deal we struck - if he would just cart the clothes downstairs, I would launder them. Other than that, I have let go of any hope that he will suddenly transform into a person who actually keeps his room clean.
But his terror-inspiring mess does contain lots of information about him. Information that I wouldn't get simply by asking him questions. Or by trying to "friend" him for the 987th time on Facebook. He's now "blocked" me anyway.
Sometimes, he tacks up his personal to do lists. Well, to be more precise, he hangs his lists on the wall using black duct tape. They contain goals like "get a job," (he did), "finish portfolio" (he did) and other directives meant to provide motivation.
By reading this, I am assured that he is developing into a young adult who just may be ready to assume some responsibility for himself.
Other times, I find new work that he has done. Sometimes, his images are pretty darn...disturbing. Have I raised a terrorist?
I think of times when I hear him playing with the dog, times when he thinks no one is listening. He laughs in a delighted way and coos endearments in a voice a few octaves higher than his normal tone.
I remember that this is the kid who bought a stuffed duck at a garage sale when he was six and named it "Little Cutie." This is the same person who talked his father into wading into a muddy riverbank to rescue a blue heron wrapped in landscape netting.
Artistic friends tell me these images are pretty much stock in trade for emerging artists. I am comforted by that. I love this kid to pieces, even if I am never allowed to show it, and I don't want him to carry around a cumbersome darkness that no one else can reach.
Sometimes, a visit to his room will reveal song lyrics painstakingly copied and taped to the wall. Lyrics about depression. Lyrics about rage and about the "man." You know the "man," right? The one that has fucked up the world for every generation of teenagers? Yeah, he hates that man too.
Instead of feeling panic, I remind myself that he finds solace in words. That he is able to find comfort through reading and listening to music, cause I can relate to that. I was that kid, too.
He's got the normal collection of dirty dishes and spare change. Books are everywhere. He's got paintbrushes and colored pencils and an easel and lots of other things that tells me he's busy, he's passionate, he's committed to something beyond himself, he's envisioning his future and he's aware of his own talents.
I have no idea if the comfort these visits provide is just a grand illusion, one I employ to still the nagging doubts about the parenting I've provided him over the last 18 years. If nothing else, it shows that he is an interesting person, completely and irrevocably untethered from me.
I probably wouldn't want it any other way.
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