Self Expression Wrapped Shame

I lost part of myself in the act of growing up. I was weird, awkward as hell, and overweight. I spoke my mind and told on myself when I did something wrong. When I was thrown outside I’d get lost in the woods for hours. I would look up into the vast sky through pine needles and ran around the yard barefoot.

I was dangerously curious about people and their emotions. I’d ask questions to which one of my parents would go “Zach...” As if I wasn’t supposed to ask. It was safer to turn my curiosities to the TV. I mimicked what people were doing, or even eating, on TV. The most vivid being the scene in Godzilla (2001) when the guy was eating noodles as he stares at a sonar I so badly wanted to have the cheap Ramen noodles to go along with... It always looked so good.

I don’t want to disappoint anyone, I just know that I will. It angers me. I need time to think before I make a decision, and sometimes I make one without thinking to please people... that often leads to disappointment. What’s holding me back from honoring my time, feelings, and brain!? I reflect on this and beat myself up about it and get quite ashamed. In self reflection on this I had an exciting ‘bubble pop’ in my stomach: my art never disappoints me. When I put my heart and soul into something and its intended message isn’t clear is when I feel disappointment, it hurts, but it’s never the art’s fault.

Growing Up Strange

All through grade school I would catch shit from older kids about my weight or my glasses or both. They’d call me names. To this day I get anxious when near a park basketball court or a public pool. The kids with the flames on their swim trucks would do insane flips off of the diving boards and when I’d try to do some flips they would get angry with me. If I had a successful jump into the water they would dive in after me and ram their heads into my hips, bruising them. Dunking me under water and along with gasping for air I’d beg them to stop. I just wanted to have fun and be myself, but that wasn’t what was cool. I felt a similar way about my abilities in the classroom. I never felt I performed good enough to please my mom. Mistakes were allowed only in small form and were met with ‘you should be ashamed of yourself.’ And that worked, I was disappointed in myself, therefore ashamed, of the way I looked and acted. Afraid to be myself and eager to change and grow...

I always looked up to one of my uncle’s as a Compass of Cool (only for him to turn into someone who I don’t recognize later in life) who I’ll call Uncle Nike. Uncle Nike would show up to my Mom-Mom’s when we lived with her for a short stint after the first divorce to check in on me and my brother Zane. He and his friends would skateboard in the street with their buzzed heads and head to toe Nike gear... even a Nike Swoosh buzzed into the back of their heads. They were cool. I want to be like them I thought to myself. They made me feel seen. I wasn’t asked very many questions, but I was allowed to participate and do my best at skateboarding. I’d hop on Uncle Nike’s board, with its stiff trucks, and ride down the street and be applauded. Little 6 year old me on top of the world and about to fall.

I liked being a little different, but not to the point where I felt ashamed of who I was. It felt nice to be my own person and into my own things. I was impressionable, of course, but had my own take on things. I wore black. Rode my bike and listened to screamo. Farted in class, did high jump, and wore Nike shoes. All things I genuinely liked, and still like, but that became apart of my identity along with sports. I tried to ‘be cool’ like my Uncle Nike and I learned... It was all a shield, a world I could live in, but I was being pressured to change, again, from just general growth and aging. I really needed distance from my painful childhood to process what the fuck was going on, but I couldn’t escape it. I had to live it, grow, and adapt in real time. My training from my mom only taught me how to feel shame, not how to work through it. There’s no point in appearing ‘cool’ if I’m not cool with myself. That Christmas, thank God, I was gifted my first ever camera from my dad and step mom— A GE point and shoot.

“When you can’t go back, you have to worry only about the best way of moving forward.”
— Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

Walking with giants

As I walk back home after a photowalk I move in the direction of traffic on a one way street. It’s dusk. The headlights cast a shadow of my legs onto the brick and caged windows of Chicago apartment buildings and condos. The parallax of my shadow makes it look like I’m gliding. I wonder about my worth in other peoples’ lives outside of friends and family— I’m convinced this matters even though I’m wrong.

‘Who am I when I’m not creating?’ passes through my mind... I want to belong. To contribute to a greater conversation outside of hobbies and 40 hour work weeks. And on the flip side I envy the simplicity of that life. I turn to creativity when I feel down and out, which I assume is why I have trouble shutting off and staving off my passion. I process the world around me this way. I’ve recently accepted my responsibility in storytelling is both fun and a part of my purpose... How lucky. How fun. Who am I again?

When I’m lost I turn to my creative heros, my favorites are the most truthful. Honesty and truth are an attractive thing for me; vital even. I keep discovering these types of artists, they feel like distant family. It started with a recommendation of J.D Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye (naturally) from a high school teacher named Jim Gardner. Eventually I bumped into Nora Ephron, Mike Nichols, and Mike Mills with their brilliant films. Nora Ephron’s quippy writings, somehow, led me to Charles Bukowski, Cheryl Strayed, and Louisa May Alcott. I’m sure there are some people rolling their eyes, as some are rolling in their graves, but.. I like all things transparent. I see myself reflected in each of their works from films to books. They help me reach inward to pull myself up and out.

Lately, when I go out to capture the world around me, I have been more patient. I walk slowly and let my eyes guide me. I try to take advantage of the fact that no one is asking for me or about me. I’m in between the cracks of society. I’m a freelancer, so when everyone else is at work I’m invisible.

Street photography, like writing or filmmaking, helps me value my time here on Earth. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from doing it— there’s never nothing happening. It just depends on if I’m listening to myself and paying attention to my senses or not. Regaining that childlike curiosity about the world is amazing. When I’m in that headspace everything is gorgeous and feels like it’s meant to be. After all, what I am witnessing is what’s happening. As scary as life can be it is a fact. I can sit with my thoughts, feelings, and emotions when I’m able to create... and when I can’t... fear and anxieties kick in.

“Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves...”
― Cheryl Strayed, Wild: From Lost to Found on the Pacific Crest Trail

“Don’t give in to your fears... If you do, you won’t be able to talk to your heart.” — Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

Feeling

It’s a confusing conundrum of anxiety I hope to be able to defeat. To sit and do nothing and be okay with who sits there... Mistakes and all... I have to face it. I have all the tools I need to accomplish this goal; just as I do to create. Mistakes don’t bother me in the creative world, they’re a blessing, but when I fuck up in my life it takes me days or sometimes weeks to recover. How can I flip the narrative? No, I’m genuinely asking.

I was feeling a little lost yesterday afternoon. I felt I wasn’t being valued in my line of work. To evade that false internal statement I dug into my film photo archives and became emotional after looking at my discarded photos. I was surprised by how emotional I got. Some of them were beautiful. The colors and blurred imagery. They take me to a mysterious place and time of kinetic energy and hope. I became so thankful for the risks I took, even the failed attempts. I found value in myself from my past.

Later, I walked a busted camera bag of mine into a shoe store to get repaired (it has something to do with needle sizes that a clothing tailor just doesn’t carry typically) The owner, Dan, asked if I shot film. I told him I did as well as digital. He shared with me that he had a Pentax K1000 that he misses dearly and now shoots on a Canon T6. He also talked deeply and metaphorically about the action of capturing images in his old days of film capture. He said, “The ones you planned never turned out, and the ones you took a risk on, or were nervous about turning out, were the ones that ended up being the best.” And in that... Dan and I were in full alignment as complete strangers. He had no idea what I’d been going through, but we agreed that there’s something to making your best work when you’re taking a risk or taking it easy on yourself.

There’s no such thing as a mistake. A mistake is just an opportunity to do something else... Leave it and let nature take its course. It’s a natural process of evolution. It’s what we’re doing all the time.
— Ralph Steadman, Season 8 episode 4 of Parts Unknown

Blissfully Unknown

I don’t think I fucked up by latching onto creative pursuits to make myself feel better, if anything it’s helped me get to where I am. I need to be intentional with myself and time and let go of my disappointment when I’m not creating and take care of that person... Give that person the mercy they deserve. Make connections and let people into my internal experience. Make the mistakes, apologize for them, and move on. Maybe, in doing that, shame could become untangled. Without the raw version of me there’s nothing left.

Not everything needs to look or feel like progress in order to be progress. Letting go of a, more or less, toxic idea of my self-worth being wrapped up in ‘what I’m working on’ has been hard, but it’s been valuable. I’m going to disappoint, maybe even with this article, and so it goes.

Being in free fall and accepting that I can’t always be creating is really hard for me. It’s nice, though, to have figured out how to give the voice inside my head something constructive to do. Trying to figure anything out is exhausting.

I’m lucky to be able to apply what I learn from my creative journeys, friends, family, and strangers to my life. My curiosity of others, I’ve learned, is a flattering thing and nothing that I need to be ashamed of. And when I feel ashamed, worried, scared, lost, or angry... I just say so. Isn’t that amazing? I think so.

Father Figures Known and Unknown

I create a lot and share when I feel it’s necessary these days. Stream of consciousness writing has showed me that I actually don’t suck at creating and that there’s a certain hump I have to bump over to convince myself that something is worth not only starting, but completing and then publishing.

Books saved my sanity in the year 2023 along with, what I would label, intimate and exploitative conversations with friends about said books as well as exploring each others brains and emotions. The most influential book of the year was Rick Ruben’s The Creative Act: A Way of Being. A number of these friends (it seems like I have so many, but I routinely talk to about 3) consumed this book or have been told about the book. It’s like having a mentor through a creative life. Something I desperately needed in the year 2023.

In my creative separations and private adventures I felt lost in the darkness of space and time. Like a loose atom hurling towards Orion and aiming to go past our galaxies edge. It’s a dark scary place at times and a comforting retreat in others. Did I have anxiety in this darkness? You bet your ass I did! But looking back at The Creative Act and talking with friends helped me hold onto this slow moving atom. Dakota Evans and Dom Udell (my creative P.I.C.) were my confidants that I could radio in anytime I felt I needed to ground myself and check in with The Creative Way of Being.

In this first post I am scared. Right now my heart races at the idea of sharing this onto the internet… But the stomping of my father-in-law’s heels above me during a Christmas break while I type this in my notes app humble me in a way I can’t really explain… It’s gonna be fine… I haven’t let myself down yet, and I trust myself. And as Dom always says:

“Create with reckless abandon.”

Welp. Here I go.

Last Christmas

Dakota is his own atom floating through space. He seems ageless and timeless in his pursuits of creativity. He says things that the average human being would only think and then try to avoid by scrolling. Death, for instance, is a thing he was forced to face earlier this year with the passing of his father, Brian, who I wish I could have met. Brian collapsed during Christmas time in 2022 and the family had a hard decision to make in early January that led to some of his ashes being spread by Dakota in Lake McCarron, Minnesota.

Dakota gave me updates last Christmas about his Dad being admitted and I remember, after learning this, Alyssa and I were driving down the Three Mile Stretch to Saint F when he sent me a voice memo saying, “Give your Dad a hug for me.” And he never had met my Dad. He still hasn’t… But when I saw him I wrapped my arms around him and cried. He patted my back and said, “Everything alright, Bub?” I told him in rich detail what I had heard about Dakota’s experience and how lucky I felt to still have him around. Life is truly a gift… It was only days before Brian had collapsed that Dakota and I were reeling about how lucky we were to have such young fathers. I suppose that’s why Dakota’s wish for me to hug my Dad hit me so hard.

My Sophomore year of high school was the first time that dear friends of mine had lost a parent. Ben, Max, and I are close, but Ed is succeeded by Harry and Betsy as well. They lost their father during the school year. The hallways of the school were quiet and filled with sniffles. Mrs. Kiser’s classroom was directly behind my line of lockers on the top floor and she could only provide a presence, which was all that was needed. Ed was a strong man in the Lawrence County community. He died of cancer he didn’t deserve to have. He was the only adult that treated me like an adult when I’d first met him while I was at the ripe age of 13. He cared about my thoughts and asked how I was doing. He knew I had a challenging childhood and empathized, but never pried; he let me do the talking and then he’d shared insight—which was much needed since I was ‘the new kid’ in the early days of my friendship with Max and Ben.

With Dakota I was shocked how he sounded on the phone. Completely level. I had to ask if he’d been crying to which he responded, “Oh yeah, a lot.” But there wasn’t really a back throat raspy grief speak I was accustomed to hearing and all too familiar with. Dakota is the most tenacious human being I know. He feels deeply and strongly and allows his emotions to be worn in real time and without apology. An admirable trait. He very confidently told me that he’s at peace with it for he had absolutely zero regrets with his relationship with his Dad. Of course, it made me reflect on my own relationship with my Dad and beyond.

Ben’s Wedding

The weekend of June 16th, 2023, worlds collided. Ben, Ed’s oldest son, married a fellow classmate, Rachel, the same weekend that Dakota invited me to Brian’s ‘celebration of life’ as well as Sunday being Father’s Day. Ben and Rachel got married at the Ritz Charles in Carmel, IN, near my brother’s apartment, on a hot and sunny day. I wrote them a card with projections on how the wedding would go and tossed some money in it. Alyssa and I got dressed in a flash and Zane (the brother with the apartment we stayed at) drove us in his 1990-something Honda Civic. We sat on the groom’s side near some high school friends and their spouses. We caught up and touched shoulders and shook hands before the groomsmen entered the room. As they did it fell quiet aside from a live strings arrangement of some Taylor Swift song.

Ben looked happy and proud as he waited on his bride to enter the room. They were married near Ed’s prayer shawl, the same as his younger brother Max just years before—which made me just as emotional in the moment as it did at Max’s. Their vows they wrote came from the lips of their Rabi and were sincere and well written. Rachel’s were vulnerable and had a creative rhythm. Ben’s were honest, funny, and loving just like his personality. A high school friend later mentioned how it’s the most vulnerable thing he’s ever heard Ben express. I couldn’t say the same. Both Ben and Max have opened up to me many times which, I believe, is a main reason why we are still as close as we were in high school. I like to check in with them and am not afraid to ask questions and be there for them through the good and the bad times. It’s dawning on me now that this is what their father Ed had done for me… There’s an unspoken bond we share, and I feel that we like it that way.

I spoke with a few other high school graduates and was elbowed by Alyssa to introduce her to them—a practice that I apparently fell out of from COVID times. We took our drinks to a small circle that grew as the cocktail hour went on. All people from our high school. We swapped ‘what do you dos?’ and admiration for one another. It was endearing and sweet. We love one another and it’s unclear when, or if, we will ever be all around each other like that again. As the night went on I danced with some and spoke with others to reign in the marriage of our two classmates.

Once Max and I started saying our goodbyes at the end of the night the emotions and love couldn’t stop. We shared how much we value each other’s friendship and how much we wish we could see more of each other. He said, “You’re one of the good ones,” which I can’t understand why I have a hard time believing, but I do. Max mentioned how much he loves knowing he can count on my friend Tanner and I then he slipped into a story that caused a shift in posture from his wife Lauren. I asked if she had heard this story before and she simply said, “Many times.”

He shared a moment and a line of dialogue I had forgotten about from football—well I don’t think much about football in general, but when I do this particular game does pop up. At the end of our final game I lost control and I wailed and bawled in front of my team and a crowd. Max came up to me and we cried on each other’s shoulder pads and he looked at me into my eyes and said, “I wish I could have done more for you,” and I said, “Don’t say that man, we all gave it everything we had.”… I asked him to stop because I didn’t want to start crying in the ballroom of the Ritz Charles. He reassured me that he feels the sentiment that I’d shared that day with him—that we give it all that we have. I told him that was something I needed to hear since I struggle figuring out how to love myself. He gave me another hug and told me that I deserve to be able to love myself. He wished I could do it right then, and so I did…but looking back at this moment it only lasted a short while…

Father’s Day

We got back to Zane’s place and Dad was there grabbing a few things from his truck. We hugged and I felt love spike even higher in my heart. All this love in one night felt supercharged. We gathered in the living room and discussed what we would do once we all woke up and then went to bed… I couldn’t fall asleep. I was high on human connection and love. I couldn’t help reflecting on what are now some of the happiest memories I have of certain friends both close and not-so-close. Also thinking of meeting my best friend, Dakota, in Minneapolis didn’t help. I wasn’t able to drift asleep until the sun started to rise.

Zane, Dad, and I went to ‘Jack’s Donuts’ on AAA Way Street (lol). We chatted as we ate back at Zane’s place. We covered topic after topic with ease. Dad shared how he wished PTSD was treated to ex-prison workers the same it was to ex-military. He admitted to witnessing too many ‘bad things’ and said, “I’m bad.” And and we told him, “No, you’re good.” As if that would fix his trauma… But what the fuck else do you say? I feel sad for him and wish he’d see a therapist… Looking at him I wondered—Is this how I look when I experience shame? I love him and want him to love himself… Just as Max, Alyssa, Zane, Dad, Tanner, Ben, Dakota, and even my Mom want for me. Why is loving one’s self such a challenge?

After Alyssa and Nina woke up we went to a placed called ‘Pins’ which is a place that has tiny bowling lanes and games to play while you wait for a lane to open. I giggled at the little pins as they got yanked back up to their holding places. Each pin was 8 inches tall with paracord attached to the top. Once hit with the bocce sized ‘bowling ball’ a robotic arm would puppeteer all the pins up and then lower the remaining ones. Nina, Zane’s girlfriend, surprised herself when she won the game.

We went to ‘The Garage,’ a food hall, for lunch. My Dad described it best when he said, “It’s like indoor food trucks,” and we all agreed. I got a Cuban Ruben with plantain chips—it was okay. Dad, Zane, and I shared haggis hush puppies for our Scottish heritage and bonded over the experience. I asked Dad if he’d be willing to take me to the airport and he was. I just wanted to spend as much time with him as I could before heading to Minneapolis.

Minnesota

I did my best to journal on the plane, it smelled like used urinal cakes and was turbulent. I arrived safely and on time. Dakota picked me up in his Grandma’s blue Toyota Matrix. He pointed out landmarks along the highway including an Olympic ski jump that he told me saucey stories about—most too sexy even for the internet.

His grandparents greeted us with open arms and had very well mannered things to say as I walked in, and they had that air about them the entire two days we stayed with them. They lit up at my reaction to their offer of an old fashioned. They made it with Mountain Dew and explained why Mountain Dew was in it while we drank. I was shown photos of Dakota’s dad, Brian. It felt as if I’d just missed him as he went to the store and that he’d be back any minute… We fished off the dock at sunset and went to bed around 11.

We slept next to each other for two nights in the spare bedroom at his grandparents. The room was purple and green with stiff carpet and a balcony with brittle plastic chairs likely from ‘Menards.’ Dakota’s cousin’s Preston and Morgan stayed as long as we did, but we were the only two to go out on the boat. We had good long conversations about love, life, and other curiosities while my skin slowly turned red in strange areas from sunscreen not reaching parts of my back. We swam in the cold shores of ‘Big Island’ and the deep waters of a cove I didn’t know the name of. Photos and short iPhone clips documented our excursion.

I watched Dakota and his cousins try to convince their grandparents into going to ‘Lord Fletchers’ for ‘discount burger night’ which seemed difficult. I got the sense that they’d rather not be eating out in a crowd. We went there by boat—which was an experience I’d never had. Dakota and I goofed around the whole way there cracking jokes and asking his cousins questions. As we stood in line the smoke off of the grill was backlit causing the smoke to act more like a fog that disrupted our eyesight. The condiments were in these large pump vats and they were out of ketchup, so I settled for mustard.

The burgers were fine, but the alcohol made it go down easy. It was this meal that I got a peak behind the pleasantries of the family. Dakota’s grandpa said a few things that struck a harsh cord. One being about my favorite city, Chicago, when asked what I liked about the city I did my best to describe what I love about it. The other thing being how many ’secrets’ his recently deceased son, Brian, kept from him. I didn’t say anything, I just looked at Dakota’s body language change as he shifted in his seat. He was eluding to Brian’s writing. Dakota had shared a few pieces with me over the phone and in person of his Dad’s writing and he was unreal. Very descriptive, weird, funny, and—above all—honest. The secrets comment stung… it made me thankful for my dad’s vulnerability. I felt comforted to know that if I were to pass before him that he’d know everything about me and that there wouldn’t be any secrets between us.

On Tuesday the 20th we drove around in a rental car and Dakota showed me where other unmentionable acts, teenage hijinx, and sentimental stories about his Dad took place before we went to our Air BnB. But no story was more beautiful as the spreading of Brian’s ashes. Now, this part of the story isn’t mine to tell. It’s Brian’s, and only Dakota can tell “the ending of his story” as he put it, but I can share images from my experience which are here in this blog.

A father and son loading a finishing boat to his old Chevy truck were also present during this—which Dakota photographed before he swam out to part ways with Brian. It was a beautiful cycle of life I found myself between. The end of one father son story and the beginnings of another. Dakota sloshed out into the lake while the little boy played and hung on his dad’s truck blubbering innocent nothings while his dad clanged around and banged the boat back into its position on the trailer.

I took two photos of Dakota as those two backed out and away from my life forever. I felt emotional, but there were no tears that fell. Once he swam back, we embraced. His skin was cold from the water, some soaked through my shirt and pressed onto my skin. He simply said, “Sucks, man.” Then we gathered our belongings and made our way to the Air BnB. We blared and shared music while roaming around some the gorgeous green city of Minneapolis.

We ate at ‘The Lowbrow’ for dinner and swapped life experiences and slurred words over food and cocktails. Once we got back to the place we watched ’Easy Rider’ for the first time and went to sleep in separate beds for our final night together. We woke up well rested and ready for caffeine. We had our first cup at ‘Five Watt Cafe’. We got into a small scuffle over ‘my tone’ in asking him about his writing process and then made our way back to the Air Bnb where we shaved and got ready for the airport.

Nearing Orion

It’s hard for me not to be hung on the negatives. My tone has gotten me into trouble with friends, and certainly with Alyssa. It’s part of my need to be gentle in certain situations and something that prevents me from loving myself fully and creating freely. I look up to Dakota in that he’s fearless and reckless in his creation. At ‘Five Watt’ I had not only asked about his process, but interfered and gave suggestions that were unprompted. Assertive in a time that required a gentle pat on the shoulder and then going back to minding my own fucking business. Sometimes I feel in the way of his creative pursuits to a point where I have been shut out completely. It happens, and isn’t always my fault. This hurts me, of course, but I respect him and his pursuits. It’s hard to stay hurt from someone who cares so deeply about me.

While we floated out near ‘Big Island’ I asked him a question… I asked if he loved himself, and without hesitation he said “yes.” And I asked how he does it. He said it was something that was shown to him by his parents. It’s the same thing I see in Ben and Max as well. I don’t believe it’s my dad’s fault that I can’t self love, it’s my own. It’s something only I can work through and teach myself how to do. It’s a part of my own journey and part of my creative path forward.

The intersection of my presence in all of these events and trying to get the courage to share them from my point of view is an attempt to show myself that I’m worth loving. The tears welling up in my eyes tell me it might just be working.

Happy New Year. Here’s to living and loving.

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photo by Alyssa Green. Taken on 6.23.23— two days after my return.

This article is dedicated to my Dad. Originally written on 12.26.23