Before You Were Born

You think of life before you were born. You suddenly picture streamers sailing across Japanese wrestling rings thrown out of adoration for the wrestlers. You trace the streamers back from the ring to the throwers who are lost in the crowd. You realize how the streamers, red and green and purple and orange, symbolize influence. You realize life before you were born is life while you were born and life immediately after you were born. You wonder what happens to the streamers once they are swept under the ring, after the matches, after the crowd has left. You store the pageantry of Japanese pro wrestling for the moment. You think of your father. You remember his face full of stubble smiling under a mustache and trucker cap at a bundle of blankets. You sleep or cry somewhere in the sea of blankets under a head full of new hair. You think of the faded photograph which imprinted this image in you, the unmatched but barely recalled outfit of your father. You remember his lack of a fashion sense, his sweatshirts matched with scrub pants. You think of the eighties. You think of the excuses of excess and a good economy. You remember your father’s Cincinnati Bengals jersey and the bumper sticker on the black briefcase which held your birth certificate. You think of your father’s disappointment watching the Bengals lose the Super Bowl when you were seven months old. You think of the halftime show, Be Bop Bamboozled in 3-D, the first ever network broadcast in 3-D, introduced by Bob Costas, sponsored by Diet Coke, and hosted by Elvis Presto. You remember your grandmother’s love of Elvis Presley and the room in her house dedicated to him. You remember other celebrities vaulted to ideas. You remember your father watching and laughing at old Clint Eastwood films. You remember silent cowboys smoking in Italian fake-Mexicos firing their revolvers in extreme close-ups while Ennio Moricone scores whistled along in the background. You remember your mother’s crush on Patrick Swayze and your father’s crush on Sandra Bullock. You think of Public Enemy and Spike Lee but remember your father listening to Alabama and Johnny Cash and Conway Twitty. You remember your mother listening to The Beach Boys. You remember Van Halen. You remember your father blaring I’m Your Ice Cream Man in his truck without any trace of irony. You revel in the lack of irony. You think of your grandfather. You think of cycles. You realize your grandfather defined manhood for your father as a child as your father defined manhood for you as a child. You think of your grandfather in the army, in armor, in Vietnam. You think of your grandfather’s funeral. You remember his obituary only mentioning only his retirement from the paper-mill where he worked for decades. You think of your father joining the army out of high school. You think back to cycles. You realize why your college education was a vital suggestion, a demand, from your father and grandfather. You realize how they shaped the man they wanted you to become. You realize everything shaped the man you would become. You think back to the streamers discarded under a wrestling ring in Japan. You realize they once hung spooled in stores, were manufactured in a factory. You think of influence. You think of stories.