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October 26, 2002: My Ancient Autobiography: By Anthony V. Toscano

I suspect that by the time I finish this column I'll make some important points about the world and my relationship to it. Still, don't count on my suspicion, because I feel like rambling. It's been more than a year since I posted anything here. Where in the hell was I? Well, there I am, just to the left of this paragraph. Before I made it to that photograph, I fell down and into deep chronic depression. Add a continual set of bouts with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and you have an alphabet soup worthy of a shrink, some meds and an appearance on "Oprah." I turned down Oprah's offer, mostly because I'm sick of hearing depressed people talk about depression; but I took on the shrink and I swallowed the meds and I worked hard to come back here and face the people who once read me. So no, I'm not going to say much of anything about chronic depression, except to mention that treatment feels a whole lot better than Hell felt for all those years. The smile on my face is genuine. Between, around and under appointments with my shrink, I've taken several trips this year. One of my brothers fell toward death when his historically twisted back gave up and broke. I had not seen him for years, but when my sister-in-law called to say that he was gravely ill, I rushed the few hundred miles and helped to see him through two major surgeries. He looked greyer than I remembered him, and what with having a broken back, his body leaned forward at an implacable sixty-degree angle. I sat and listened as his surgeon told him that the fatality rate for this particular type of surgery is high, but that he was sure to die without cutting him open. He survived both operations. His spine is now supported by an erector set of rods, screws, hooks and clamps. Still, today, almost exactly a year gone from the day he broke, he walks, talks and smiles. I love him much; we got to know each other all over again. See the Golden Gate. One recent morning, I skipped out on a conference (I've come to despise professional conferences) and crossed the wispy wonder that is the Golden Gate Bridge. As the fog floats back and forth across the bridge, her color changes from bright orange to a deep shade of red. I loved her enough that day to cross her and re-cross her several times, just for the thrill I felt inside my heart and gut as I prayed to the memories of those who built and died for her. The crooked tree before the beach is famous. I'll let you decide where she sits looking dead the entire time she thrives. I've never lived in a land-locked part of the world, and I hope to die beside a body of water. When I was younger, and about to leave my homeland, I walked the beach one day and made a promise to myself: "If ever you feel that you cannot make it in this world, if ever again you feel that low down and hopeless, then walk beside the ocean and watch the waves. Watch the bravery of the waves." Coleus. My mother grew coleus plants in the summertime, because they were a hearty enough plant to survive the fickle weather patterns that surrounded us where I grew up. After leaving sight of the crooked beach tree behind me, I visited a favorite restaurant and there spied the coleus. For the first time I noticed that her colored ribs and ripples hold a beauty beyond just heartiness. Nowadays, I realize that the same was true of my depressed mother, but I think she never realized the truth of her own ribs and ripples. There she stands, spying herself inside the mirror. Notice the racist pot holders hanging on the wall. In those days, we the ignorant never noticed; and the rebellion of the brave was yet to come. There I am again inside a photograph. Sitting at the breakfast table. Trapped, each and every one of us. I'm in the left, foreground position. My dad stood behind the camera. I think I took my love of photography from my dad. If you're able to notice the dark shadows under her eyes, then you are one of us. I promised, though, to make a point of this column; and so now I will. I recently discovered the original holograph of Anthony V. Toscano's autobiography, written when he was in the sixth grade. A school assignment, no doubt; but what a funny idea to consider such a young boy writing his "history." I'll present this document to you exactly as it was written. I'll also tell you that the document was a string of lies. I just wanted a good grade from my sixth-grade teacher, Mrs. Bertha Cox. God bless you, Bertha. *** Anthony Toscano's Autobiography I was born in the Atlantic City hospital on August 1o, 19__. My parents and I lived in Wildwood until I was fourteen months old. After these fourteen months, my father, who worked on the railroad, was transferred and we had to move to Ocean City in 19__. There my brothers, ____________ and _____________ were born in the same Atlantic City Hospital. We moved to Pleasantville on February 22, 19__, which gives us more reason to celebrate Washington's Birthday, into our brand new home where we live now. In September of that year I started school at Leeds Avenue. It was the beginning of a new adventure for me. School to me is very interesting, and each year it gets more so. At the present time I am in sixth grade. My parents have great hopes for our futures. I pray to God each night that I can grow into a fine person and make them proud of me. In February 19__ my family was made happy when a gift from heaven was sent to us. Our little brother _____ was born. During my first year of school I also enrolled in Sunday School. I made my First Holy Communion on May 25, 19__. I was glad to receive the sacrament on Dad's birthday. I received the sacrament of Confirmation on June 1, 19__. I feel lucky to have such a wonderful family. My mother says she loves each of us for different reasons. The reason that I'm extra special is because I was her first born and introduced her to the joy of motherhood. Those are her exact words. I hope and pray that my future life will be as happy as my present. My parents tell me that if my faith in God remains strong, and if I'm always considerate of the other person, that I will be able to face whatever comes. I feel sure this is true and I'm looking forward to tomorrow and to all the tomorrows that come my way. The End *** Like I said folks, kids lie. *** Thanks for stopping by to visit us here at SpilledBeans.com. If you'd like to be notified whenever something new is posted to SpilledBeans.com, then please join the Spilled Beans notification list. -- Con affetto, Anthony V. Toscano, Editor SpilledBeans.com

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