When I was 12 and my dad wanted to buy a bass guitar, I was hesitant to agree with his decision. For one, I had never played an instrument myself yet, and so I couldn't comprehend the immense joy one gets from doing so. I only thought of the money -- was it worth the cost? I didn't think he would ever go professional. For two, I also didn't realize he was already an amazing bassist and guitarist because he'd been playing from nearly my age. I thought it was only a random whim.
I don't think he ever intended to go professional with it either, though he did join a variety of bands over the years and sometimes did play for money, but he never quit his day job over it.
But I don't think I've ever seen him so happy and spirited and full of joie de vivre as when he played, even when he was at home just practicing along with pre-recorded music. He never played his CDs and albums so loud as when he was playing along, whether it was in our little apartment in Tigard, Oregon or our own home in Yuba City, California.
He ended up also buying a full set of sound equipment (an amplifier and speakers), and not casually, the sort of professional-grade items he would drag along for gigs on stage.
He also bought a kit to assemble his own bass from parts. He spent at least weeks very carefully applying coat after coat of polish and varnish to the wood after sanding it. He didn't paint it, unlike most electric basses, leaving it with a natural wooden look like an acoustic guitar.
I didn't find out until last year that when the Lees evicted us, he was forced to sell it all.
I had already found some peace after my anger towards them. Now it returns, bitter and sorrowful.
They had already robbed us of our home, our comfort and safety, our dignity as human beings who wanted to work hard to earn a living and care for ourselves, as we were forced to beg our friends and church for aide, to receive charity from strangers which we could not in good conscience refuse because to turn down any amount of help would be to endanger ourselves, each other and our pet.
They already made my dad question his worth as a man because of his fear that he had failed us (even though it was actually brought about by his company going bankrupt and letting everyone go). They had already taken so much, so swiftly and suddenly. They made us feel helpless and afraid. They made me turn my back on my friends because I was so used to the entire world's scorn at that point I couldn't bring myself to trust anyone not to do the same to me.
I have not really seen him happy since. He has nothing to occupy himself. He has no method of expression, no freedom from monotony. They took his right to the pursuit of happiness. They took his hand-wrought creations -- not just the guitar, but also all the historical models he painted himself, his other favored form of art -- and one of our means of gaining money in a struggling economy, on top of that. They took the happiness and spirit I miss seeing him have.
My parents bought me an acoustic guitar for Christmas.
It doesn't feel right. It doesn't belong with me.
I tried playing it today. I put it away after a few minutes and have been weeping for at least half an hour now, knowing I can never gain as much from it as he ever could, wishing he had bought one for himself and not for me, and feeling terrible for not being as grateful as I should.
But it isn't right. I should not have three instruments while he has none -- while he has nothing.
I can't say any of this to them.
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