ON SECOND THOUGHT

For the first time in many years, I enter my son’s room without feeling as if I were an intruder. He is not there, but neither are all the warnings signs on the door which read “Do not enter”, “Keep out”, and “Do not trespass." The walls are naked except for that terrible poster which was left behind for being unable to survive another moving! The sides are torn and wrinkled, and the repeatedly folded parts are now about to tear into four different pieces.
I sit on my son’s bed really determined to give this poster some thought. There must be something in it that made my son take it with him on so many trips. I kind of feel glad I still have it here with me. I just wonder the real reason he didn’t take it with him when he went to live with father, and having decided he wanted to go back to his country to start his own band. Sometimes I feel my son wanted to leave it here, not only because it was falling apart, but also as a reminder and a reminiscence of the many interesting talks that were raised over the simple view of it. I don’t regret having been too lazy to grab a ladder to help me get rid of the ugly thing on the wall. That gives another chance of trying to understand my child’s mind by taking another look at this old dark image of death, holding a sickle, surrounded by skulls and dying people. I think of that tall fourteen year old boy, long dark hair always kept in a tail, two small rings in the left ear. The black T-shirt always advertised his noisy worshiped bands, and that faded blue jeans were sometimes deliberately torn to look old on his long legs. The old black tennis shoes were worn on every occasion. I think about this rebellious teenager frowning to look mean, every time I insist on taking a picture of him, or when he tries to hide his caring feelings for someone or something.
I remember one of my son’s reactions you my usual comments that I found this poster aggressive, “But Mom, that’s the point. Can’t you see it? I like it because it’s aggressive.” No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t understand why someone would to face death every time he entered the bedroom.
“Son, why does it have to be like that? Why not a motorcycle, a car, a basketball player? I don’t know anything a healthy young boy would like to have on the wall…”
“You definitely understand nothing about death metal, right, Mom! We don’t like healthy things. We don’t like sports, and we have no sympathy for those ‘tough’ guys in the Harley Davison gangs. Besides that, we don’t share your peculiar notion of health. Would you be happier if I had Michael Jackson or O.J. Simpson hanging on the wall? And how about Airton Sena? Do you find it healthy driving fast race car in dangerous race roads until you become a famous world champion and die? Tell me, Mom, do you find it healthier than my noisy guitar and my death themes? “
I tried to ignore his last argument in that I myself have a hard time dealing with broken images of idols. I insisted on going back to that poster hanging on the wall.
“Tell me, Rafael, why do skulls, skeletons, devils, and death attract you so much?”
“They mean the end, the chaos”, he answered.
“And what about love? Isn’t love something stronger than death?”
“Bullshit! There is not such a thing. Do you know what I think? Love is just an illusion. Death’s real, irreversible.”
“No, I don’t understand. And I don’t agree with you.” Before I add anything else, he interrupted me as if he knew exactly what I would say next. That was not the first time we had this kind of talk. And he got a great kick out of his undeniable control over the thread of the conversation.
“OK, OK. Forget what I said. I know you don’t like when I say the love is just an illusion. You say I’m too young to be talking about feelings I am still to experience. But love has no appeal to me. Have you ever listened to any death metal, even trash metal music which talked about love and happiness? Don’t you understand that, like everybody else I need to follow models? And I write lyrics that I dream my favorite bands would feel like singing one day. Love isn’t one of our favorite topics.”
Here we go again. He always confused me, so I would never know what he felt about things. Was love an illusion or was it just out-of-context in heavy metal themes? I sometimes thought Rafael would choose the strategy of confusing me, to make me give up talking about the strength of love over death.
“Do you know what your problem is, Mom? You refuse to realize that there is no such thing as happiness.” He had developed a kind of preference for the topic of happiness and I wondered why. He did not know how to deal with that either.
“But I’m a happy woman.” This time I had a feeling he would really give some thought to what I had said so it would not be the end of it. He would not repeat that same silly frequent answer that my happiness bothered him and that went against his dark view of the world. Not this time. This time he seemed really in the mood to go on with this conversation. This time he said:
“That’s what you believe, Mom. You may be happy today, but not tomorrow. Tomorrow soothing will most definitely happen to spoil your day.”
“That may be true, Rafael. But let me tell you something. When I was a child, I really believed in fairy tales and Santa Claus. When I was your age, I believed in the ‘prince charming’ and eternal happiness. Today, I believe in moments. You are right when you say that I may not feel happy tomorrow. That’s exactly why I try to live as I intensively as I can today. I also try to find happiness on little things that remind me I am still alive.”
“You may be dead tomorrow, Mom. Do you what I mean? Life is not worth consideration. Death always takes over. Besides that, if you love, you depend on other people for your happiness.”
This time I felt uncomfortable. He seemed really involved in our conversation. I feared I wouldn’t be able to give a reasonable answer to his next questions.
“Could you ever be happy if I wasn’t, Mom? Whey would happen if I died? Now, do you know what I mean? Could you think of living intensely if your children were suffering? You talk about love. Do you know what love does to me? I have to worry about you all the time. That’s it. If I did not love you, I wouldn’t feel responsible for your happiness;”
That was one of those rare occasions he told me of his love for me. But I knew it was difficult for him to love me and to be the rebel he wanted to be. He ended our talking by saying:
“Next time I make you cry, remember what I have just told you.” And he left the room.
Well, on second thought, I think I’ll keep that poster on the wall. I can’t get rid of it now. Not until I decide what I would have answered Rafael, had he given me the chance.


Vasconcelos, Maria Cristina, Greater New Orleans Writing Project – Writing Anthology
Summer 1994