In the midst of the turbulence that besets our great nation I come to you all this evening with this one thought of encouragement. I can't get any worse than it is. With that said on to more pressing issues. Coffee always brings a ray of hope to the beginnings of many mornings for me. I typically have a few cups with my father as we discuss current events and such. My relationship with my father wasn't always so amicable. My early years as a teen must have driven him literally insane. I wasn't always the most manageable teenager.
I grew up with a pretty solid core of friends through elementary school and Middle school. I had friends that were into sports and such. I have never been athletically inclined so I sought my way into my middle school band. I played Coronet. At one point I was 2ND chair sitting right next to Paul Jewitt, our answer to Maynard Ferguson. One of my best friends at that time Greg Quintana sat 3rd chair. We switched places allot through 7th and 8th grade. It was the middle of the year of my 8th grade when my grades fell slightly.
I remember the displeasure my father had with my grades. It was time to pay the piper. I watched as he loaded my coronet up along with me into his car. I remember the trip to the music store that was only a few blocks away being the longest trip of my young life. I stood there in the music store with my dad , and watched powerless to stop what was about to occur. A few short minutes later and my life would change. No longer was I a part of group. No longer did I have UIL competitions to practice for. No longer was I 2nd chair coronet in the Ed White Middle School Band. A few short months earlier I was winning a silver medal along with Greg, and another fella I can't remember, for our rendition of Greensleeves in a UIL ensemble competition.
I remember that I became a small, insignificant, and somewhat unattractive 13 year old, that now had no outlet to combat my social ineptitude's. I recall how neat it was going to be to transition to High School, and follow in my sister Patti's footsteps, and join the Roosevelt Rough Rider Band. After all I was 2nd chair Coronet. My heroes were Chuck Mangione, and Miles Davis. Maynard Ferguson is what I played on my record Player.Now what was I going to do? I remember the first week of High School was difficult because all my band friends were now in band, and I wasn't. I was swallowed up by kids much larger, and in most ways more in tune with the High School experience. I fell into a rough crowd of kids that were more willing to accept my outsider status. I had always been into art, but now art was all I had. So i worked hard at learning everything I could about Art History.
I had a great teacher named Eleanor Freshauer, who coddled my infant talent. All the while I found a new identity in Heavy Metal. I grew my hair long, and sported the uniform of a malcontent. I hung out at the corner video arcade and regularly began to smoke cigarettes, and drink beer. I was a youth gone wild. My sister patti was in the rock stage as well, so it seemed cool and acceptable to me. I gave my Parents hell. I was hanging around Troy Kunkle, who at the time epitomised "Bad Ass". No more did I have my trusty coronet by my side. It was replaced with a switchblade knife. With liquid courage I rose through the ranks of rockers, I had an identity now. Under the shadow of Troy we were untouchable. Troy was executed about 4 years ago. He sat on Texas Death Row for 20 years. He committed a murder in Corpus Christi Texas in the summer of 1984. By that time I had split with the Heavy Metal Crowd for something more exciting.
Punk Rock was vibrant and new. There were no Punks at Roosevelt. Well then there were 2. Myself and Dean Davenport. in the summer of 1983 we discovered punk rock. It fueled our angst, and put us on a new level of different. I began going to punk shows as early as 83 at Tacoland (A historic punk rock venue in San Antonio) , mixed in with a crowd that was diverse. Most, or almost all of my friends from that point came from other High Schools. I remember being sent home from school because I wore a trash bag as a shirt. We won't even talk about the time my sisters saw me out at the mall with a freshly cut Mohawk.
I wonder how different my life might have been if my father had only let me keep my little coronet. I may have gone to college with my friends. I may have ended up playing jazz, instead of fronting a punk band. Do I hold my father responsible for the changes that occurred in my life? No, of course not he was a great dad, I however, was a horrible son. For that I am sorry. Looking back at the trails I have travelled far, and wide, I take solace in knowing that I have never wasted a minute of life precious, as it is!
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