Nearly 2.5 score years ago today, I was expulsed from my mother's womb (as Erik so picturesquely described it on my FB wall), and my life as Wayne Allen Glass, Jr began. Named after my father, I was born at St. Joseph's Hospitial in Wichita, Kansas to him and Linda Lou Cobb. The thick shock of unruly blonde hair that sprouted from my head resulted in the nickname "Sandy", one that has stuck with me throughout life. It's better than "Bubba".
A few years after my birth, Wayne Sr and Linda divorced. Dad quickly remarried, this time to a breathtakingly beautiful nurse from the wheatfields of Oklahoma. She had the most beautiful name I'd ever heard: Anita. It was a name I loved using, at least until it was forbidden to call her by it soon after the remarriage. We had rules in our house, and very strict ones. The first was never to speak of my natural mother. Ever. The second was never to call Anita by her given name. It was to be "Mother". The third was never to wear your outdoor shoes in the house. But that's another story.
So now here I am, thousands of miles away from my native state (Kansas) and my "home" state (Arkansas, where I lived from age 7 to 27), and light years away from the ethos in which I grew up. An ethos that not only included a fierce dedication to rules, but also the daily household use of the words "faggot", "homo", "dyke", "n!gger", "sp!c" and pretty much any other hateful epithet you can imagine. The men in my family gleefully tossed these words like chicken scratch, and with the same amount of disaffection they used with the women in their lives. I feared my father. I feared my grandfather. I feared my uncles and their male progeny. I pretty much feared getting up in the morning. How I survived, I'll never know. But I did.
And now I am surrounded by family and friends who give me nothing to fear. Nothing, that is, except fear of living without them. I've said this before, but it bears mentioning again. As I have hit middle age, I have realized how desperately I got captured in that awful trap of self-identifying through WHAT I do, as opposed to WHY I do it. I lived many, many years completely obsessed with my career. Not to make money, of course, for no one ever makes much as an academically oriented early music performer. No, my pursuit of perfection was ill-founded. Hard work was what got me through my youth. It was my escape. If I didn't grab all the Best in Class awards, how the hell would anyone respect me? They sure had a hard time doing so at home the way it was. So why should it have been any different in adulthood? I lived in terror of 1) disappointing people, and 2) being second best. Pfooie. And along the way, I ignored a great many potential friendships and relationships, because I lived what my therapist labelled that "fear-based living". To me, that's the saddest thing of all.
I love my life now. I didn't then. And it's because of the people in it, and because of the way I operate now. I no longer fear what others think of me. I am a good person. I have my father and mother to thank for that. Despite the shroud of hate and fear of difference that hung over our home like a blanket of the darkest, most paralyzing shame, I was brought up to be a decent human being. To love and respect others. I am convinced it was because I was different that I did not let the same irrational fear of difference I witnessed all around me creep into my own psyche. For that, if for no other reason, I celebrate my differences.
It seems fitting, somehow, to close this bizarre post with a picture of my first birthday gift of the day. My good friend Alison presented me with it. It is a glass paperweight that bears a photo of Mrs Maud Stevens Wagner, and she is spectacular.
Reportedly, aside from being a circus performer, Mrs Wagner was also America's first female tattoo artist, having been taught by her husband. Google her later, if you want. But first, look at her. Isn't she marvelous? Aside from the gorgeous art covering her torso and arms like an exquisitely woven bodice, notice the confidence in her face, the provocative spirit signified by that raised eyebrow. No doubt she wasn't afraid of being different. Thank you, Alison. You've no idea.
