I’ve got a story I want to tell concerning breakfast or no breakfast, actually. I wrote it a few years back, when my daughter was much younger, we were somewhat poorer and the state of politics was moving slowly to the right, where it is now depressingly (a)pathetically stuck. Here it is:

“No breakfast”, I say?

My daughter is in her very green flower print dress and red thrift shop dancing shoes. She is six and ready to play. “That’s my life, Dad”, she says. I don’t feel like arguing or digging through the cupboards or fridge for something she might or more likely not like. No family stability you say? Well, its Sunday, a day of unrest from no rest. My only day off from working six days a week, 10 to 12 hours a day. My wife is still in bed. She’s been bartending on weekends to bring in some extra funds. It’s one of those dark neighborhood dives where the customers are literally dying of thirst. I’ll let her dream. I don’t know if I want breakfast, either. I’d like to go work on my lazy desires. My music, my stories, my play. I could work on the yard; take the dog for a walk, exercise. My fleeting ambitions are usually reined in, lost in the day to day to..

I don’t remember sitting down to a family breakfast when my brother and I were kids; our parents were both working/ going to college. So does passing on passing the eggs and bacon get passed down from generation to generation. My brother and I both passed (you could say, failed) on the college thing, it got too expensive and somewhat questionable in just over a decade. Also, the combination of our parent’s latent artistic tendencies came out full force in us. They’re rebellion too. No wonder they divorced and moved on to more practical partners. Of course, their divorce was another reason for me being such a late bloomer, lost in the confusion and numbing pain of non-commitment. Now here I am, middle aged, making poverty income with no proper education or practical skills, just my worn desire, my tired ramblings and I can’t decide which creative financially impotent project I should do or not do next.

If things works in that every other generation way then maybe my daughter will go to college, get a good education, be a little more reserved (without compromising her beliefs) and use her talents too. I don’t want her to be poor. To worry about cars that don’t run, bills she can’t pay, choosing between health insurance and food. Not able to move out of a house she doesn’t like, a neighborhood she doesn’t feel safe in or ever experience the wonder of traveling to other parts of the world; breathing in other cultures. On the other hand I don’t want her to be a big business tycoon either. They, like doctors, lawyers and politicians, have come to represent, purvey all that’s corrupt and un-spiritual in our country (which whether we believe it or not is actually just a small part of the world). A divided country whose differences are not as big as we think. I mean we have neighborhoods full of neighbors who have no ambition beyond their next drug, drink, piece of flesh, reality sitcom fix and then neighborhoods of unknown neighbors who have no ambition beyond their endless ambition for the next (legal) drink, drug, mowed lawn, seasonal garden, three car-S.U.V. garage, siliconed flesh, reality sitcom adrenalin fix.

The difference is in the statements. “My stuff is bigger than your stuff”, or “Where’s my stuff?” Well, I say, stuff it! Breakfast, the most important meal of the day. A foundation upon which to build a healthy, happy future. If only we sat down and had breakfast all would be right in the world.

My daughter says, “Watch this, Dad”. And does something resembling a…a.. I really don’t know. “I did a somersault, Dad, can you believe that, can I go play now”? I give her a big hug. Give me another chaotic, dysfunctionally inspired, fumbling on the edge, flying red somersault shoes hugs for breakfast day. We are alive, we have love, we have no milk!