My Origin Story or A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Restaurant Industry (Part 1)

Self Portrait, 2013

Being unemployed and quarantined, and having a need to understand have put me in a position to delve into issues and figure out how I've gotten to this point in my life. I have notably been able to turn things to shit and I have had moments where I am able to shine.  My primary struggles began with a lack of fitting in and an abundance of self-consciousness. Im a creature who is acutely, often painfully, self-aware.  

From an early age on, I felt unseen by the adults around me to the point where I could not be myself. I could not be emotional. I could not do anything that could be interpreted as "girly" even though I was naturally effeminate in many ways by cultural standards. This alone put me in a conflicting situation, since toxic masculinity was the standard I would be held to "if I wanted to be a man someday." I lacked emotional stability and was unable to trust the world around me, forcing me to live in scarcity. I wasn't welcomed to be myself by the very people who were supposed to love me unconditionally.  As a queer boy, unaware of my own sexuality, shame and secrecy became deeply rooted in my behaviors.  I developed the need to protect myself from being myself so I wouldn’t be hurt. I became someone who had to learn how to read a room upon entering so I could figure out who it was acceptable for me to be. 

Janus, 2015

In spite of being denied the ability to express myself, I was a lover of life, always trying to look on the bright side. I was naturally optimistic. I loved people. I rushed to people's side who needed comfort. I became everyone else's problem fixer, even as a child. My heart longed for love, affection and approval where ever I could find it. Being kind, showing understanding, and being available to others became a pattern early on that allowed me this connection. 

From an early age on, when I felt bad, I was comforted by food. I would use it to numb the pain I didn't even know I was in. As this habit took over my life, I started wearing “husky” pants. My sister took to calling me "fat" or "slow" or  names like "tub of lard" .  I wasn't motivated to exercise or to go play outside because it just brought on more name calling. I began to own these names as part of my identity.  My body wasn’t fat, I was fat. I started to grow quiet in social spaces. This attracted people that needed to feel dominant, often in aggressive ways. Bullying came from kids at school, my sister and aunt Ruthie, and my own mother. Somehow, I became a target just by being. 

(Husky) Me, 3rd grade? 

The first decade of my life was spent growing up in the country. We lived on a dead end gravel road between the city of Marshfield and the village of Spencer, Wisconsin, on Eckes Road, to be exact. In the Spring of 1977, we moved into the double-wide trailer that my parents designed and had built by the mobile home manufacturer Dad worked for at the time, Wick Building Systems. The foundation of our house was on land purchased from my God parents, Eugene and Clara Heisler, who owned most of the surrounding property.  The 10 acres or so we owned was located between a sand pit, a topped off landfill with a groundskeeper, a hay field and a forest. 

I was a part of the standard, all-American rural, Midwest family, with a mom and dad (Susan and Chester) and a sister (Charity). I was the prized baby boy, the one in charge of carrying on the family name. I was who my father had hoped to pass a legacy to and who my mother had hoped one day would find a good woman and marry. We had conservative values mostly revolving around the Lutheran church and a strong work ethic. My parents modeled privacy, secrecy, and immaturity, avoiding a lot of difficult topics of discussion throughout our lives. Desires to keep up with the Jones’ were made apparent, especially by my mother. We were compared by her, to everyone else. No one was immune from her curt judgements she would randomly cast. My parents tried their damnedest to mold us into the "perfect" family for everyone to admire. 

My father played the role of primary breadwinner. He worked as a foreman in the mobile home plant. Eventually, when housing market took a hit in the 80s, he put his carpentry skills to work and started his own small construction company.  My mother had worked as a waitress in a diner before having my sister and I. She was "permitted" to go back to work by my father once my sister and I both enrolled in school. Her first job back into the workforce for Weinbrener Shoe manufacturing, and eventually she made a switch to retail and cafe work at the local Kmart after a near nervous breakdown from the stress of the factory work.

 

I had a confused and complicated upbringing. I could the Brene Brown Poster Child from the damage shame caused during my rearing. The style of neglect and abuse I received in my life was pretty covert when it comes down to it.  I, being a super sensitive and an empathic child, could feel others anger and disappointment. I was easily be persuaded that "Yes, I ought to be ashamed of myself." in almost any situation that I was being reprimanded for.  I mastered shaming myself, thusly beginning an abusive relationship with myself.

 

Heteronormativity and toxic masculinity were the guideposts for my regulation when my demeanor was read as “girly” or "soft."  This came from an early age on and mostly from my mother who was in charge of the majority of time spent raising my sister and I.  Even though I wanted to, I was typically denied playing with the popular Cabbage Patch Dolls, Barbie and Ken dolls or even doll houses. I was most certainly denied possession of any of them. On the few occasions I would be allowed to play with dolls,  it would be behind closed doors. I also longed for a My Little Pony, having asked for one repeatedly from Santa's of multiple years. Instead of ever receiving a doll that I wanted I would get building sets and Matchbox cars, things that were boy toys. One christmas, I received a cap gun set, with gear to play "Cowboys and Indians." I pouted in disappointment watching my father and Uncle Fred play with the guns and wear that hats, trying to tell me I was missing out by not playing.  I chose to sit out in my sadness. Violence was not something I liked participating in, even in the form of play. As a conscientious fat kid I was not gonna willfully chase others around, shooting at kids who might end up beating me up. I also didn’t want to risk the possibility of being called names which hurt way more than any rough housing did. As a queer kid, masculinity was painful enough to try to pull off.

Brunhilda, 2015

Rather than holsters, cowboy hats and head dresses, I would have much rather played dress up with women's clothes. I liked the colorful and flowy clothes that hung my mom's closet. Not to mention, her shoes. I noted sandles, clogs, flats and especially heels. (I loved to sneak and put her shoes on.) My sister and I once planned and practiced a runway show wearing hats from a box in my mothers closet and a variety of other fashion statements. We giggled together during the day preparing for the night show, excited to entertain our father. We even convinced mom to take our picture.  I remember, I was quite excited. We made it an event and sat Dad down to watch us at 7pm like we were on prime time television. My sister, going first, strutted her stuff in a cute bronze hat with a metallic bow and veil. When I walked the runway, I, too, strutted my stuff and entered Dad's view. I don’t remember which hat I wore. I don't even think I turned away to walk back down the hall to get ready for a second hat, before my father put an abrupt end to our runway show. We were made to stop because of my prancing.  I was sent to my room where I cried waiting for my scolding. I wasn't sure what I had done wrong, but I knew it was wrong because my parents said so. My parents eventually came in and told me that the last thing I wanted was to be thought of as a girl. Walking like I had down the runway, was too much for them.  They explained to me that I didn’t want to be called names and picked on. They assured me that my behavior would invite that.  When I tried to say we were just having fun, it wasn't a good enough explanation.  I wasn’t allowed to have “that kinda fun.” My parents left the room where I was left to “think about what I had done” which meant I needed to shame myself for acting in the way that I had. 

I was consistently reassured that people would think less of me if I behaved in certain ways, as though I was doing something wrong.  This was similar to an experience I had once when I got caught wearing blush as we left our home to go out to the Viaduct Tavern with my parents on a Friday night. The harsh, cold scolding, ridicule and reprimand was my parents’ pattern. My face still hurts from how hard my mother scrubbed the cheap make-up off my cheeks that night. 

Bookbag Fashionistas, 84

In addition to punishment for my behavior, I was shamed for showing my sadness and crying, or for feeling helpless when being picked on. The phrase "Big Boys Don't Cry" would often be told to me. It was even sung to me by my mother to the Frankie Vallie tune "Big Girls Don't Cry" so I could always hear it ringing through my head. Because of the "boys don't cry brainwashing", it interfered with my ability to properly process my sadness. How confounding to a child experiencing sadness to be told he is wrong?!?  I would often get angry because I couldn't express it. Then the anger would turn to shame. It became a constant cycle, and one I have had to work on throughout my years. 
In my emotional abyss, Big Boys Don't Cry wasn't the only song she would sing to me. We would always listen to 50s and 60s music. The Coaster's Charlie Brown was a fun song upbeat, something that was easy to be a kid to and dance around with at the time. It may have been one of my favorite songs until the day my mom thought it funny to change the words to "Clinter Brown" and sing it to me. That wasn't the worst part.  It was the last line when he responds, "Why's everybody always pickin' on me?" She would dig in deep on that line and sing it to me, mocking my own sadness.  Even though I was being targeted by bullies in my life, I was often treated as though it was my own fault. Even though she was the one picking on me, tearing me down bit by bit, she mocked me as though it was my own fault. The people around who were supposed to love and care for me, mocked me for feeling bad for being picked on. I was powerless. Even though my feelings were hurt, they were not valid.
 
I would get angry because I thought people didn't understand my feelings. They may have understood them just fine, but they denied me the ability to feel them. Eventually, in my emotional anguish, a tantrum would ensue. I would go into foot stomping mode, shaking the whole double-wide trailer, even at 5 or 6 years old. At some point, my mother took to calling me "Francis the Mule" for being stubborn and angry. She stole the name from a popular 50s TV show. I have a vague memory of her literally giving my sister the "ok" to do it. Of course, Charity willingly participated. She wanted her mother's love too.  I don’t blame her.
 
My sister and I had a rocky relationship growing up, vying for approval and attention from our parents. I was definitely a mama's boy and she, a daddy's girl. We had our ups and downs in childhood, fighting like cats and dogs at times. I always looked up to her with love and admiration. She did not expressly reciprocate, for a lot of those younger years. 
My sister found ways to play on my empathy. She knew the game well. In our cycles of play, an argument would eventually happen. A physical confrontation would occur, normally with her on top of me using my own fists to hit myself with, saying "Stop hitting yourself! Stop hitting yourself”! Even though I was taught it was wrong to hit a girl, eventually, I felt left no choice but to fight back and I would land a hit. She would double over crying, as if hurt by my weak punch. I would turn completely devastated having hurt her. I didn't like the idea of hurting anyone, ever. I also knew I would be in deep shit when dad got home if he learned I hurt his little girl. I would eventually be crying at her side, consoling her. She would go from her doubled over self and explode her body outward flailing her arms and legs to scare me. Then she would let a big roar of laughter for fooling me into believing that I had hurt her. This begs the questions “How much trust can be built when a child is raised to question how much they can trust everyone around them?”

 

Christmas, 1980

Charity and our Aunt Ruthie, mom’s younger sister, were pretty close and would at times find ways to torment me. This included reinforcing my fears of the dark and all the monsters that lived in it. There were a couple occasions I was driven to blood curdling screams, while trying to fall asleep in a second story bedroom in my grandmothers dilapidated home.  From the dining room below, my sister and aunt would make ghoulish sounds and scratch at the ceiling, eventually working my fear into pure terror. This translated into a tremendous fear of the dark.  For awhile, I had been able sleep with stuffed animals to comfort me. But when I reached 2nd grade, my parents decided I would no longer be allowed to cuddle with the stuffed animals I had grown to depend upon to protect me. Even with them, I slept like shit, tossing and turning, falling out of bed, untucking bedding and even breaking footboards. 

When I had to start tucking myself into bed, I had a routine. I would stand between the light switch and my bed. While one hand held onto my top sheet attached the bed, the other would reach for the light switch, eye's squeezed at tightly shut as possible. Stretching as far as my arms could, I would quick flip the light switch and dash under the covers. Once underneath, quailing on all fours, I would search out the upper corners of the sheet and the sides that draped over my bed, tucking the loose material under my knees and feet, fists clenched full of linens. From there, I could squeeze my eyes as tightly closed as possible and anxiously fall asleep... eventually. 

Perhaps because I didn't feel much love and belonging at home, I sought positive attention from other sources.  Even after awful nights' sleep, I would be awake, ready, and excited to leave for school. I really took a shine to school and my teachers once enrolled. I loved learning. I also loved earning the teacher's approval and was often a star pupil. Teachers would give me the praise and acknowledgement I wouldn't receive at home. Neither of my parents had much value for formal education. My father quit school at 8 years old to go work on a farm. The story of his first time bringing school books home was often recited. Apparently, my grandfather, Francis, threw my dad's school books in a fire, announcing that "School is the place for books." My mother's report cards from high school looked like she quit in 8th grade. I don't think they knew what to do with me. In fact, I know they didn't know what to do with me.  They did not relate well with me and lacked the ability and willingness to adapt in their understanding of me. They saw their parenting challenge was not to raise me as I grew into more of myself, but rather to mold and shape who they wanted me to grow into. There was little compromise until my teenage years when their authoritarian parenting styles changed to permissive. (Next Blog….)

 

A Smurftastic Birthday with Grandma, 1984 

No, family life wasn't always terrible, but this sort of upbringing created filters for both my perception of the world around me and of myself.  I did find solace in one person in particular in my family during these years and that was my Grandma, Kathryn. Even though I made her life hell at times being a "stinker" or "fart blossom" as she liked to say, she showed me love. The type of guidance she gave me was never diminishing of who I was. She always had ways of making me feel special. Thank goodness there were a lot of weekends I was left in her loving care.  A lot of the spirit that comes along with being a child was taken from me by the other adults in my life. Rather than being appreciated as myself, it became understood that I was to behave a certain way around people. Rather than being playful and just being a kid, I was expected to be a tiny man child. Rather than playing with dolls, I was supposed to like the things my father liked. Rather than feeling the full cycles of emotions, I was to stuff them down inside and suck-up my tears and do my best to hide in the shadows of who I was expected to become. 

Having these expectations set by the adults around me, forced me to see the world a certain way. I was fearful of the world and had very few trusting relationships. Children who have challenges trusting people, grow into teens who have challenges trusting people... Stay tuned for Part 2 of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Restaurant Industry"...

 

The World Around Us and The Lens We View It Through, 2018

About the Art:

Art is a means of personal expression, self-examination, and catharsis. I chose these pieces that highlight different aspects of my life and personality. The energy put into art allows a space for confronting my issues that no other conversation can create. I am able to create a two- dimensional representation of a multi-dimensional life. In doing so, I can step back and examine it from a completely different perspective. The issues addressed within the art as only segments of my entire being. Value can be applied accordingly. 

Self-Portrait, 2014, chalk/charcoal on cotton paper. I rarely draw myself, perhaps it is because I have had a hard time loving and accepting who I am. I am rarely comfortable in my own skin. I do however, appreciate the knowing look and glimmer of hope I hold in this one. 

Janus, 2015, Encaustic. Janus is the Ancient Roman God of Beginnings and Endings of Conflict, of Change, Doorways and Passages. This imperial sized piece shows the portrait profile of  two-faced Janus, leaving empty head space to gaze through. The profile is complemented with large bright swaths of colored wax giving it a stained-glass-like effect. Aren't all gods just hollow images of ourselves?

Brunhilda, 2015, Encaustic mixed media on Cotton paper. Some believe all artwork we create is somehow a self portrait. The disembodiment of the figure's head suspended over her lacey dress is surrounded with judging eyes.  There are elements of real lace and buttons embedded in the wax. Some psychologists might consider this the equivalent of expressing the need to play with dolls.  

The World Around Us, And the Lens We View It Through, 2018, Acrylic on Canvas.  I chose to include this piece because we miss out on a lot of the world when we are trained to see it through our own limited perceptions.  When we can step back and allow ourselves permission to accept that our own viewpoints are limited, it becomes easier to open ourselves up to understand every human has their own view of the world. There are very few people that do not contribute to the beauty of our own experiences, we just have to allow and accept each other in a loving capacity, with compassion and human decency. Black Lives Matter. White Supremacy and its institutional practices must end.  A lot of how we see the world around us is dependent upon how we see ourselves. Luckily, if we are taught unhealthy ways to do this, we can unlearn them and create new perspectives. 

About the Author

Clint Frederic Wiater resides in San Francisco. He is an artist, vocalist, and life coach with a heart for helping and a love of life.