Torn Genes

Writing

I am Derwin Misean Allen Jr. I was born January 14, 1994 1:48 PM, My mother was Paulette Pugh, and my father was Derwin Kirk Allen. My middle name was derived from my grandmother’s imagination she tells me of how it just came to her in the moments that she saw me. My mother named me after my father, my grandmother seemed to despise that. There was always some form of hatred that had been aggressively weaved together between my grandmother and father. My grandmother told me of how my father was a simple whore of a man with no other intentions but to impregnate my mother and disappear, sadly he did vanish out of my life, and my mother’s. I was told tales of how as I was still a baby my mother had taken me to Georgia as a baby to see my father, and apparently lost her sanity in the home of my father. I’ll never know the whole story, I’ll never know what she encountered there I only know the tales that were spoken to me as I grew older, the tales of how I was dressed in girls baby clothes when I was a baby in Georgia. As I stated before I do not know the whole story I only know what I’ve been told. My grandmother once became a spider upon a ceiling and spun me webs of tales all within one sitting. The visit that my mother had in Georgia with me in her arms as a baby seemed to have started the web. I have no anger or remorse because I cannot change the past nor will I know the entire truth of these past events. The people that were involved have passed away long ago. I simply have memories that are stories that have been told to me, I won’t know the truth of any matters.

There was once a story I was told that with my brother and I were in the car with our mother as she was driving and a car rammed into the rear end of our dark blue ford and I slowly began to fly out of the windshield. My infant body unattached to the car was flung forward and shattered the glass of the windshield and my body slowly flopped down into the passenger seat. The glass rained down slowly as I landed into the seat and my mother in shock grabbed me and checked to see if I was tattered or maimed from the ordeal. My skin lay upon my body untouched and unharmed by the glass that I had been forcefully thrown into.

Once upon a time I believed every story that I was told, until I found the truth out for myself. After that everything around me seemed to be torn between what I heard and what I realized myself.

I come from a family of undisclosed secrecies, the typical description of a youth without a father figure raised by a single mother with another sibling. I’m simply another all American stereotype. The quintessential figure that everyone expects to simply fail and to never amount to anything, how can I amount to anything when I am forever being put into categories that I feel aren’t deserving of me. I want to be placed into the category of a man who has dreams and aspirations? No, I am simply placed where people assume I belong.

My thoughts of individualistic living are shattered by revelations. The revelation that I fit into the stereotypes that I am labeled, I am father-less, I am lost. I am still spun into webs where the lines between truth and fiction slowly begin to blur as I am told that my father could have been a lie all along.

I am told that I am the seed of two families of whores now, that possibly my father isn’t really mine; possibly I am the spawn of incest. I refuse to believe that I am yet another sickening American stereotype.

As I have said many times before, I do not know the truth for I was not there; I only know what I have been told. Slowly as I learn more and more about the faded and dissolved truths that have been withheld from me I feel  as if the vary genes within me are being torn apart and I have lost a sense of identity.

I refuse to bare the pain. My thoughts fight against the heartache. I attempt to create theories and philosophies that will ease the pain and angst that I acquired through the unwanted knowledge that I couldn’t prove true or false just yet. Not yet will I lose the will to find the truth within a web woven with silken and smoothly spoken tales with no proof but the word of mouth.

A war wages, no, not a war a rebellion. A rebellion within my own self, a rebellion against accepting what I have been told and to now question what has been placed upon me.

I rebel against the conformist within myself and begin to unravel the web that had wrapped itself around me, it wrapped around me because I allowed it to. I refused to fight against the things that had come to my mind. I refused to simply stand against the person that I used to be.

I have learned to question every object, every obstacle, every person, every truth, every lie, and every rule. I’d like to believe that everything is permitted to being questioned in life.

Nothing is true; everything that is accepted shall be questioned and analyzed.

This is only the beginning of the personal anarchy and revolution…

 

 

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