A Tale of Tulips Malloy

(not fitting into any assignment theme, I had an itch I
had to scratch, hope you don't mind)


I was born on a hunter's moon.
Mother was an emotional Irish immigrant.
We lived in Carbondale Illinois. Father dug coal.
He worked scared, and lived scared.
Irish were a mean sort. Folks sometimes called us
land-pirates. Irish meant that you worked. You were born a given day,
and that was your only day of grace, cause two day old infants were given
a bucket and mop and told to clean up.

I remember ruthless songs, and ruthless stories.
My happiest memories are days that I didn't suffer
lacerations. Me mother, for her burden I, I did pay a price.
I was granted life, fed and clothed. Aye, a lad I was.
But, branded with a namesake.
Irish live with a cloud of
vengeance hovering, looking for the distant day wherein their
soured grapes of wrath can be wrung out like a tired God,
disgusted over its creation.

Tulips Malloy. It was enough to kill me many times over.
Save for the providence of fallen angels sent to protect me.
I would have gladly be burdened with a hundred-weight stone,
chain and shackle, and exiled to the South Pole.

The stark cold school houses we as children were obligated to attend were enough
to deaden everyone to the bone. Yet, for my luck. My first name broadened the
bleak picture to a roaring bonfire. Laughter is good for the soul it is said.
And, I know there are some very healthy souls I grew up with.
Fate is the real fist you are handed, not the one you imagine, or want.
Father, expected me to stand up like Ramses the Great and
defeat entire armies. If I dared limp or show despair at the end of a day,
Father would entertain lashings which would kill an oak tree.

Sullen, I grew sideways, instead up upward.
My inside world was one of constant vigilance calibrated
in micro-seconds, and that was on easy days.
I could shift from this into pico-seconds in a femto-second.
We learned about Darwin's theory, and survival of the fittest in
6th grade. The class realized, as I should have succumbed years earlier,
that I was a contender in this race for survival.
I was fast in running contests, the fastest, if you don't mind me bragging.
You see, fleeing for ones life bolsters a gusto for genuine motivation.
Tulips became a gift when the awful period of transmutation finally came to a fruition.
I became the shrewdest, most outrageous clever lad in all of Carbondale.

There were outsiders who would travel a few miles just to see what a Tulips might
look like. Most of them had ill intentions. Most of them, when looking me dead in the eye
would see clear warning signals. A few dared to stand up and start a verbal match. Then
a shoving match. I would always allow the courtesy of first contact right on my jaw.
My solidity would often distract the aggressor and diffuse the violence.

Life didn't stop becoming a challenge, it was assumed that I would quickly move into
employment to work coal. My father, in a span of 2 years, had fallen off so badly that
I knew his death was coming before next winter.

I was leaving. If I had to crawl out blindfolded through woods and swamps, I would.
I was leaving everything I had grown up knowing. No endearing memories to
surrender anyway. I had mustered the gumption to make bold moves without saying
anything about my intentions. They said that Tulips was brash and legendary as
any Irish hero, but mysterious as blinding fog. I shall move along in life, but will hold onto
Tulips as my given name. Both curse and charm in it.

Marc