I'm not too fanatical about fireworks.
Being the grouchy old lady I've always been, the loud booms aggravate me, and the sight of idiots holding flammable/combustable shit makes me panic.
However, it appears everyone else in my family, actually, everyone from Hometown, enjoys this shit.
Back in Hometown, the time one sees a light show similar to fourth of July would be in September, when our patron saint is celebrated.
Everyone convenes, out in the open, directly in front of the church, which sits atop a hill... so, technically we really just stand at the foot of the hill, as the fireworks are shot at the foot of the church's steps. Making sense?
Anyway, everyone in Hometown looks forward to this shit, which takes place the night of the 9th.
I only really remember seeing this show twice, once in 1992 and then 2009.
In 2009, we happened to be down there due to my grandma passing away. I was so fucked up in the head, I actually participated in the festivities by watching the fireworks atop the closest roof-top to church, in the company of my siblings, my godson and his brother... as we drank away our sorrow.... because we cared that much about proper safety precautions. Our matriarch was dead! What the fuck did we care about life?
1992 is somewhat shady, but there's one event that does make this year memorable:
The people in charge of setting up the firework displays are who you'd expect in a third world country: poor, thin young people... ruled by one fat motherfucker that does jack shit besides yell orders and collect the money-- total slave driver.
I remember looking at the kids who would be setting up the intricate stands full of pyrotechnics... and wondering how the hell their parents allowed them to miss school to do this shit.
The kids were all boys, most around 10-15 years of age, buzz cut (butch cut), and they'd all be covered in soot... "dirty," I thought. Worse than the Peanut's Pigpen.
Of all the boys, there was one who was clearly the youngest, probably my age, because he was much shorter than the rest of the boys and his voice was... well, that of a baby. He also seemed to be the one most scared of the pyrotechnics. He'd be wandering around, amongst the parked cars, staring at the ground.
Since I've always been a moody, grouchy person, even as a seven year old, I was pissed at having to watch this damn show. To further add to my aggravation, I was having to watch this damn show standing next to only Dad... while I rocked a huge, puffy, pink dress. Dad was standing next to his homies, talking shit like all fucking men do, and I was standing behind Pops... because I was scared/angry/crying about being forced to endure this loud, dangerous shit. The spot I was standing was perfect for this angry activity of mine, because I was in the darkness, with no one standing behind me to witness my fits.
I remember being distracted for a second, looking up at one of the "whistling" fireworks that was spinning into the sky, when I felt three little fingers tickle my right hand, which was resting at my side. The "tickle" was coming from behind, and it was a clear, shy attempt at grabbing my hand.
I thought perhaps it was my imagination, so I just shook it off like I shake off mosquitos.
A couple of seconds passed, and again, I felt little fingers try to grab the fingers on my right hand. This time, I quickly turned around, scared, and drew both my hands to my chest.
What the fuck was that?!
As I held my hands close to my chest, my heart racing, I noticed the small kid-- the one scared of the fireworks-- standing directly behind me, his head hanging low, completely embarrassed.
He smiled at me... I noticed because his teeth were the only visible thing, besides the whites of his eyes... huge puppy-dog eyes he was bating at me.
I then did something for which I still feel ashamed: I looked at my fingers, which were now covered in soot, then looked back at him, his hands, and sneered.
His smile vanished, and I noticed his eyes glisten with tears.
I looked at my hand again,
Who the fuck do you think you are?!
And once again, I sneered... whipping my hair in his face and proceeding to stand in front of Dad, in the light.
Once in front of dad, I turned to look behind him. I cleaned my dirty hand on my pink dress, clearly irritated... all the while looking at the little boy, to show him how disgusted I was with him for daring to touch my hand.
I quickly felt like shit when I saw him wiping his eyes with the inside of his filthy shirt... as he hastily walked away from me, into the shadows, away from the sight and sound of the fireworks.
Nearly twenty years later... and his little face still haunts me. His dirty, blackened hands... his dirty white shirt, ratty black pants and shoes... and that buzz cut. His timid smile.
I can't believe I was so despicable.
He was just trying to comfort me... and I was a bratty, heartless bitch.
To this day, I can't see photos of street kids without getting teary-eyed...
I still can't listen to fireworks without thinking of how cruel my young heart could be.
Being the grouchy old lady I've always been, the loud booms aggravate me, and the sight of idiots holding flammable/combustable shit makes me panic.
However, it appears everyone else in my family, actually, everyone from Hometown, enjoys this shit.
Back in Hometown, the time one sees a light show similar to fourth of July would be in September, when our patron saint is celebrated.
Everyone convenes, out in the open, directly in front of the church, which sits atop a hill... so, technically we really just stand at the foot of the hill, as the fireworks are shot at the foot of the church's steps. Making sense?
 |
| Photo is taken standing at the church's front door. That thing in the middle is a "tree" of fireworks. Down there, by those tents, is where we stand and watch. In '09, my siblings and I stood on the roof of that pinkish, two story house directly in front. |
I only really remember seeing this show twice, once in 1992 and then 2009.
In 2009, we happened to be down there due to my grandma passing away. I was so fucked up in the head, I actually participated in the festivities by watching the fireworks atop the closest roof-top to church, in the company of my siblings, my godson and his brother... as we drank away our sorrow.... because we cared that much about proper safety precautions. Our matriarch was dead! What the fuck did we care about life?
1992 is somewhat shady, but there's one event that does make this year memorable:
The people in charge of setting up the firework displays are who you'd expect in a third world country: poor, thin young people... ruled by one fat motherfucker that does jack shit besides yell orders and collect the money-- total slave driver.
I remember looking at the kids who would be setting up the intricate stands full of pyrotechnics... and wondering how the hell their parents allowed them to miss school to do this shit.
The kids were all boys, most around 10-15 years of age, buzz cut (butch cut), and they'd all be covered in soot... "dirty," I thought. Worse than the Peanut's Pigpen.
Of all the boys, there was one who was clearly the youngest, probably my age, because he was much shorter than the rest of the boys and his voice was... well, that of a baby. He also seemed to be the one most scared of the pyrotechnics. He'd be wandering around, amongst the parked cars, staring at the ground.
Since I've always been a moody, grouchy person, even as a seven year old, I was pissed at having to watch this damn show. To further add to my aggravation, I was having to watch this damn show standing next to only Dad... while I rocked a huge, puffy, pink dress. Dad was standing next to his homies, talking shit like all fucking men do, and I was standing behind Pops... because I was scared/angry/crying about being forced to endure this loud, dangerous shit. The spot I was standing was perfect for this angry activity of mine, because I was in the darkness, with no one standing behind me to witness my fits.
I remember being distracted for a second, looking up at one of the "whistling" fireworks that was spinning into the sky, when I felt three little fingers tickle my right hand, which was resting at my side. The "tickle" was coming from behind, and it was a clear, shy attempt at grabbing my hand.
I thought perhaps it was my imagination, so I just shook it off like I shake off mosquitos.
A couple of seconds passed, and again, I felt little fingers try to grab the fingers on my right hand. This time, I quickly turned around, scared, and drew both my hands to my chest.
What the fuck was that?!
As I held my hands close to my chest, my heart racing, I noticed the small kid-- the one scared of the fireworks-- standing directly behind me, his head hanging low, completely embarrassed.
He smiled at me... I noticed because his teeth were the only visible thing, besides the whites of his eyes... huge puppy-dog eyes he was bating at me.
I then did something for which I still feel ashamed: I looked at my fingers, which were now covered in soot, then looked back at him, his hands, and sneered.
His smile vanished, and I noticed his eyes glisten with tears.
I looked at my hand again,
Who the fuck do you think you are?!
And once again, I sneered... whipping my hair in his face and proceeding to stand in front of Dad, in the light.
Once in front of dad, I turned to look behind him. I cleaned my dirty hand on my pink dress, clearly irritated... all the while looking at the little boy, to show him how disgusted I was with him for daring to touch my hand.
I quickly felt like shit when I saw him wiping his eyes with the inside of his filthy shirt... as he hastily walked away from me, into the shadows, away from the sight and sound of the fireworks.
Nearly twenty years later... and his little face still haunts me. His dirty, blackened hands... his dirty white shirt, ratty black pants and shoes... and that buzz cut. His timid smile.
I can't believe I was so despicable.
He was just trying to comfort me... and I was a bratty, heartless bitch.
To this day, I can't see photos of street kids without getting teary-eyed...
I still can't listen to fireworks without thinking of how cruel my young heart could be.
No comments:
Post a Comment