When I Die I Will Be The Type of Ghost Who Will . . .
This could be "me" in the near future
All of These "Images" Could Be Me
THIS IS A STUDY OF TWO GROUPS: THE "HAVE'S," AND THE "HAVE NOT'S," AND ME, AS A GHOST
Lately, and for the last few years, I have grown to literally hate certain segments of my life. To those on HubPages who know me well, know that I do possess a healthy sense of humor. But I’m not kidding this time. I wish I were. Truth, my late sainted mama told me over the years, will stand when the world is on fire.
I believe that she was dead-on in her philosophy. Over the years when I was blessed to know her, I tried hard to always tell the truth, but when you are a scared teenager knowing that “if” you tell the truth, it will be your hide tacked up on the smokehouse wall, it just seemed easier to lie on the spot and by myself some breathing room.
Until that night. It was in the darkness my always-quiet conscience began to speak up, speak out and speak into my ears, “liar! Don’t you know that lying will break your mama’s heart?” Many is the night that I’ve argued with my conscience and lost miserably. Oh, I gave it a good try alright, but I somehow knew going in it was a losing proposition.
I said all of this to justify and explain why I “hate” certain segments of my life. If you will, please allow me to expound on just one area and we will “call it quits” with this introduction to my hub .
The area of my life that I have the most hatred for is the time in my high school years when I couldn’t go to my junior or senior prom due to my family not having the money for me explore “this” part of every high schooler’s dreams.
I hated it then. And as the years progressed, the hatred grew. And grew. Now I am the proud owner of a fully-grown, fully-matured, fire poker hot hatred for those two disappointments in my life in back-to-back high school years of 1971-72.
My dad wasn’t puny when he told me, “no money for proms this year, Kenny. Maybe next year.” But even as he told me this in my junior year, I knew then that even in my senior year, the same thing would happen again. No money for proms.
I can’t blame my dad. He did his best to feed and clothe me, so that leaves my mother. No, she wasn’t to blame. I guess “I” could blame. Maybe not. Just maybe sometimes there isn’t anyone to blame at all. Just live with the heartbreak and learn to live with it.
I did better than that. I not only learned how to live with it, but convinced myself that I really didn’t care about missing these two areas of personal growth from teenager to young adult that now would only be something that “certain” groups of kids in my class got to enjoy.
Was I the only one to miss both proms? No. But at that point in my life, I didn’t know the value of caring for others more than myself, so I just “took it on the chin,” and frankly, overlook my bragging, did a great job of pretending things would be fine if I didn’t complain. Guess what? They didn’t. Oh, the things in and out of my life were fine, but the deeply-imbedded hurt made itself a home in my heart. And loved it there.
I said all of this to say this: Last Friday night I had the accidental opportunity of watching a “Grade B,” movie called, “Prom,” on Starz, only on DirecTV. If I had only used my “change channel” button prior to this “lesson in pain” on film came on, this hub would have never been written. I promise.
To offer a summary, my high school class, which might have been much like yours, was made up of just two groups: The “have’s,” and the “have not’s.” By now you can clearly see and understand which group I belonged. Even then, in 1971-’72, I was simply amazed by how great of an act the “have’s,” put up.
The late Marlon Brando, who scored huge fame in “A Streetcar Named Desire,” where he was cast as a down-trodden, hard-drinking, maligned face in the crowd named, “Stanley “Stell--a! Stell--a,” Kowalski, would have been proud of how talented our group of elite city kids with city parents with stores, jobs of prominence, and always looking and being cool, “acted” every Monday through Friday at school, and if bumped into one of this elite group over the weekend, their acting was “kicked up a notch,” ignoring my greetings and friendly smiles.
Stephen King, acclaimed horror/mystery writer’s mouth would have flew open as he watched these “chosen vessels,” of opportunity “strut their stuff,” and always be “the center of attention.” I have to give some of this group some honest, from-my-heart, credit, because “some” of them actually “made it,” in the real world--graduating high-level colleges and becoming lawyers, CPA’s, teachers and other important roles in life.
I didn’t. Make it, that is. Nor did any who was in my group of “have not’s.” Let me share just one example of how my group of “have not’s,” were treated by our “respected” teachers. In my high school back then, we had to have a certain amount of units in order to graduate. 21, to be exact.
We, the “have not’s,” were not told this until we were seniors. I’ve always entertained the question of why didn’t the “respected” teachers tell us earlier so that we could have a shot at getting an Academic diploma which would have helped us in our attempt to get into college. Instead, the “have not’s,” were quietly and shrewdly steered toward a Vocational diploma which would be fine for us who’s destiny was chosen by the teachers and their “pet” “have’s,” group, to being nothing more than members of “blue collar society.” And that is nothing to be ashamed of, so don’t be offended at me using the term “blue collar society.”
I just hate the fact that “we,” the “have not’s,” didn’t count for squat. We didn’t matter. Simply because we didn’t have wealthy parents who inherited flourishing stores from their parents thus securing a sold future for their “snoogie uggums,” the “have’s.” And buddy, it worked as smooth as the D.B. Cooper skyjacking that to this day has never been solved.
But we of the “have not’s,” did walk the aisle and graduated. And then the ultimate slap in the face, not being invited to any of the post-graduation parties thrown in homes of the, you guessed it, the “have’s.” The “have not’s,” just had the hoods of our cars to sit on and watch this so-called special night of our lives slowly become just a particle in the multiplicity of time and space.
Some in the “have not’s,” had dates with other members of the “have not’s,” some got drunk, and some, namely me, had a date with a pathological liar named, (let’s not use her real name for it still turns my stomach), “Brenda,” who was decent to look at and fun to talk to, but knew how to lie as as well as Satan himself. I grew to hate “Brenda,” even years after the “have not’s,” vanished from my hometown of Hamilton, Alabama.
Now to be clear. There is still a handful of us “have not’s,” still existing in our hometown. Still holding on to a beautiful lie, a believable philosophy that “all things happen for a reason,” but, and not to offend any religious readers, that is true, then why is it taking so doggone long for me to see the reason that the “have not’s,” and myself were so beaten-down by the system of our high school and town itself?
Were we stupid? Blind? Never grasping the certainty of where we would end-up after high school? Probably. But hey, all of you positive thinkers and manufacturers of instant sunshine, we tried and tried hard to make it in this hellish world of a two-class existence.
We studied. We applied ourselves to the breaking point and failed. That’s correct. Failed. Socially, academically, and in life, precious life itself. I guess I should apologize to Jesus right now, but I know “the” Jesus of the scriptures who not only knows my inner-being, but expects pure, unadulterated honesty in my life as well as my writing. Sure, I admit it. This piece is harsh.
Sure, I admit it. This piece should have been written three years ago when I became a member of HubPages. I was afraid that I would be banned from the Hub Community. Even tarred and feathered. Well, not that radical of a banishment, but close.
You see, I’ve always lived a life in the shadow of fear. And I was equally-afraid of being labelled as a malcontent and heathen who didn’t know how to be thankful.
So with my lengthy intro done, let me say this in closing before I open up to the “meat” of this story. As a member, an unashamed member of the “have not’s,” I failed like I said earlier. Sometimes in “this” life of mine, I get severely-depressed. So depressed that I would love to just go to sleep and wake up in the after life. Honest.
And with suicide being possibly a sin and in some states, illegal, I will just “tough it out,” until my time in this world is over. But I promise you this. And it being purely a personal fantasy. When I die and could come back as a ghost, I know that I, and other ghosts from the “have not’s,” would then be able to taste the sweet success of making perfect grades in school, dating the right girl, always smiling “that” smile of “look! I have arrived,” and other things we were denied in the flesh life. Ghost? You gasp. But why a ghost, Kenny? You persist.
Well, ghosts are very popular. Just ask Casper, Patrick “Sam Wheat” Swayze, who starred in “Ghost,” and so on. And I will not forget “the” ultimate, the epitome, The Holy Ghost. And besides, I do not want to come back as a demon because after a close, prayerful and methodical inventory of myself, I have found out that I do not harbor any evil tendencies about anyone. Or anything.
So me being a ghost in the next life makes a world of sense. If there are any ministers reading this, you might want to jump in the comment box below and offer your take on this huge, emotionally and mentally-crippling problem I’ve carried for over 58 years, and see if I can use your advice and live just a few, only a few due to me not being selfish, years in peace.
But in my life as a ghost, I promise that “I Would Be The Ghost Who . . .”
- Materialize where and when I want to as easy as taking a long drink of ginger ale.
- Conform my body into whomever or whatever I please. For starters, I am going to conform myself into a “new” me--cool, suave, devastating good looks and blue eyes that would charm the Queen of Sheba from the arms of King Solomon.
- Show up somewhere where people, the so-called “it” people, the “have’s,” mentioned in this column and start playing my Fender Telecaster guitar as well as my now-good pal, Jimi Hendrix, who out of a newly-formed friendship in the “ghost world,” materializes himself to accompany me. Man, I can just see the mouths of the “have’s,” go agape and sit back with amazement in their eyes.
- Dress however I please. In expensive suits, designer shirts and shoes, or just wear faded jeans and walk any beach in the material world that I want and for as long as I want. And maybe now-ghost, Annette Funicello will be happy to walk with me hand-in-hand and never have to face disease or death ever again. What a time to be a ghost and happy on Pesmo Beach, California.
- Own any car that I want. First, I want to take a ‘57 Chevy Bel Air, hardtop, automatic for a spin. Then a ‘55 T-Bird for when I am cruising chicks. Oh, the burdens I am taking onto myself.
- Take Marilyn Monroe to dinner at “the” most-expensive restaurant in the world and then tell her to avoid the Kennedy’s and Peter Lawford (and Joe DiMaggio) altogether. At first she will look at me with those innocent doe eyes and ask why. Then I will elaborate on the outcome of her relationship with John Kennedy and then it will hit her like a sack of sugar. I will smile as she lives out her life as one of the world’s most-talented actresses and humanitarians.
- Kick Adolph Hitler’s butt before he tries to rule the world. With me being a ghost, I can manipulate time and space. So I shall go back to when Hitler took over Germany and appear to him in his bedroom and I mean not as a wimpy, noodle-like sheet-of-a-ghost, but a ghost so mean and terrible that Hitler will shed tears like a schoolboy. “leave the world alone or I will be back to see you,” I will say. I leave Hitler frozen with a look of terror on his face. He then shaves that awful moustache and becomes a monk.
- I will seek-out all of the early illegal and dangerous drug manufacturers--those who made LSD and other “killer” drugs and also scare the life out of them and make sure that they get a job working with their hands. Let’s see . . .a farmhand job would suit them just fine.
- “Visit” all of the world leaders while they are at the United Nations and make sure that they all teach, preach and implement programs of peace instead of constantly bickering about border disputes and other trivial things. . . .and in closing.
- (This is my favorite): look for down-trodden people with problems too big to solve and help them without them knowing it. (e.g.) if they have a huge mortgage, but no job, I will materialize in the form of an average “Joe,” and hand the bank clerk cash to pay this family’s mortgage off. Then while this family is asleep, leave a few thousand dollars worth of groceries, a new car, and a briefcase with $45,000 inside sitting in their yard.
Ahhh, this being a ghost is a job that I can get used to. Just look at all I’ve done with just “one” day on the job.
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