Chapter 9

                                                 REFLECTIONS FROM THE SOUTH SIDE

                                                                Written By:  Al Asher

            A while ago I met and conversed with a man named Rashon Leyf. And a few days ago I met him again – this time at my brother Kenny’s funeral. But at our initial meeting, Rashon told me he’s one of a number of “artistic type” individuals who’ve recently moved to our city’s near north side. And he asked if I’d e-mail him some recollections I might have of my youth on our city’s south side. He said he’d like to include those remarks in the book for which he and two other men were currently gathering “input.” But Rashon admitted that my younger brother Kenny and his exploits in our city were the main reasons he wanted my words included in that book. And, maybe if Rashon and I had known what would befall Kenny shortly after our initial conversation, we may have never agreed to post these words here. And maybe Rashon may have never asked me for them or, maybe I’d have refused to give them to him. Nevertheless, Kenny is gone now, and since Rashon had the courtesy to attend his funeral, I have no problem saying what I’m about to say.

            In these words, I’ve told Rashon what in my opinion are my most relevant recollections of my and Kenny’s “upbringing” such as it was, on this city’s uninspiring south side. But after I jotted down my thoughts prior to sending them via e-mail, I realized that many of them, and perhaps especially those which concerned later years, tended to be, it seemed, personal reflections upon either certain incidents, or our whole way of life as we experienced it on the south side years ago. And Rashon e-mailed back two days later saying he intended to use all my “material.” And he said he’d

arranged it as best he could.

            But, while I have this opportunity, I’d like to thank all those people, whether they reside here in our city or elsewhere, who’ve prayed on behalf of my brother and I. And for the life of me, I can’t understand what came over my younger brother. Maybe he fell in love with the rich but lonely Lauren Havess – I don’t know.

            Anyway, I’m afraid I may not have said as much about Kenny in these words as Rashon may have hoped I would; and I’m sorry about that, but then I’m much more sorry that I couldn’t persuade my brother to change his ways before it was too late. All I can say for certain now is that after Kenny went out “on his own,” no one could tell him he wasn’t living the way he should. Yeah, he developed a mind of his own then, and he also seemed to have a dangerous sense of what I’ll call “animosity” which, in my opinion, may have really been the greatest cause of his demise.

            But I can understand where Kenny got that severely negative attitude from. He and I were born into a south side family of modest means, and lived in an area which looked, I guess you could say, impoverished. Yet, what always bothered me most about my upbringing, and the area in which it occurred, was the jealousy, and just plain laziness which seemed to be rampant in the areas surrounding my parents’ admittedly ugly house.

And when I was sixteen my mother drowned in the river. She’d been arguing via the telephone with my estranged father, and after their conversation ended, she left the house, evidently became drunk at one or more local bars, and then just walked out into the water, leaving her car behind on the south shore. And my dad blamed her death on Kenny and I. He said our laziness and “loose morals” had brought about her demise. And since my younger brother Kenny and I were both minors at the time, we reluctantly went to live with dad and his girlfriend. And it was either do that, or live in an orphanage, since neither of us had reached our eighteenth birthday at that time. 

            And no doubt the “ordeals” mom and dad brought upon themselves left damaging memories

in the minds of both Kenny and myself. And I think there’s little doubt that those memories played a

role in the type of adults my younger brother and I became. And let’s not sugar coat things here:  Kenny wasn’t a nice guy, and you can trust me on that! But far be it from me to say too much bad about him. My life has also left a lot to be desired.

            And in the twelve years that have elapsed since mom’s apparent suicide, I can tell you that, in

my opinion at least, not much has changed here on the south side of this city. And I’ve not spoken to my father since I became eighteen and left his presence. And thankfully we’ve never “run into” each other around town during that time; but I’m likewise thankful we both had the common courtesy to attend Kenny’s funeral, though we didn’t speak to one another at it.

            And so, it’s in that fashion then that my life is proceeding now on the south side. I’m making “a go of it” here, though my mother and brother are dead, and my father and his live-in girlfriend do not speak to me, nor I to them. But I’m employed at our city’s largest employer. Yes, that’s the factory that was founded, and then run for several years by Lauren’s father who’s passed on now. And thus Lauren (for better or worse) is now that factory’s owner.

            And sometimes I just find it so disheartening to drive or walk about here on this side of the

river. Most houses here are in various states of deterioration or disrepair. The majority of lawns

are poorly cared for. And sometimes garbage accumulates in piles in front of certain homes here, which then invites rodents into those areas as I’m sure you can imagine.

But a number of black tire marks left by various “thrill seekers” remain, and continue

to proliferate on the streets here. And of course my brother Kenny did his share to aid in the

“production” of such marks while he yet could. And alcoholism is common here. And less prevalent here, but no doubt just as, or probably worse than the problem of drink, is its parallel or companion

addiction - drug abuse.

            And I guess my memories of years ago are like murals on display in a museum of despair.

And at all times I carry with me one all-inclusive picture of all those portraits of self-pity, jealousy,

physical and mental abuse, lack of concern for appearance, crime, and fear of both failure and

success. And I imagine I’ll continue to “carry” that picture until my dying day.

            And often that rendition of reality shows me alone on a park bench, symbolic no doubt of

the loneliness and alienation I sense as all-encompassing on this side of the river. And I knew

already long ago that my name wasn’t very important, nor was I. But I wondered then, as I still do

today, about what I’d someday ultimately become. And I feared for the future then, and likewise

still do today.

            And I guess I’ve been languishing all my life here on this south side of the river. Yet, maybe

if I prayed very hard, someone would help me extricate myself from this dungeon of potential

poverty, self-pity, malaise, cynicism, and failure. But then, I suppose realistically my life could be

much worse than it is. At least I’m not a prisoner, slave, criminal, drug addict, or alcoholic.

            Still, I’m so afraid of dying here on the south side, as mom and Kenny did. And I’m so afraid

of “fading away” here before I really accomplish anything of any real significance during my earthly

years. But then, what’s worse no doubt than even that, is my fear of someday facing eternity’s

judges and having them say to me, “Al, to your credit, you never committed any substantial

crimes against any person or any society, but then, you never did much of anything really, did

you? Why did you waste your life away on the south side of town?”