-The Fresh Prince




When I came home, my Mother was being completely ridiculous.

“What on Earth did you do to yourself?!” Mom whined. I hadn’t even taken my coat off yet. She hadn’t even said hi.

Jesus Christ, Mom, can you be any more dramatic?

“Don’t give me that, you’re the one destroying yourself. Come here, let me take a look at it.” She put down the light-bulb she was about to change, something she did to every bulb in the house once a month whether it was needed or not, and followed me down the hallway. I was trying to make a break for my room.

Come on, let’s not make a big deal out of this.

“My son makes a permanent change to his body and I can’t make a big deal out of it?”, she grabbed me by my right arm. I stopped to let her check it out, but shrunk away from her touch. It was still sensitive, and she said “I’m not touching it.”

Moments like this bring down the whole experience of body modification. It’s something you do for you, and if you do it for anyone else, you shouldn’t do it. Because of that, getting a negative reaction just rolls right off you, but not without wearing your patience down to the bone first.

So I ask her, You think Grandma will like it?

“What? I don’t want your Grandmother to ever see this. Ever.”

I laughed at that. The thought of something like this being hidden was pretty much impossible. When I do things, I do them. Know what I mean? There’s no point in going half-way with something this important, no point in doing anything that feels completely safe. If I can’t think of one reason not to make a change, I won’t do it. Give me the unsure thing any day.

My mother sighed, still eyeing with mixed confusion and contempt what I felt so much pride for. “You know your Father’s going to explode when he sees this. You know that, right?”

My stomach pulled up into my lungs. The only thought that bothered me about the whole thing. I knew my Dad would over-react like she had, except he’d yell. One time, he had done more than yell. Doing something once means you’re capable of doing it at any time. Even if you swear through tears you won’t ever again, holding your son in the bathroom as he stuffs tissues up his nose to stop the blood from ruining his favorite long-sleeve, you still might.

I tell her, It’s too late to do anything about that now.

That’s the beauty of modification: it’s a choice you can’t take back. It’s being real, damn sure of at least one thing in life. Clear-cut consequences are sobering to a mind raised in a life of second-guessing.

Remember those “Choose-Your-Own-Adventure” books? They were these kids books where you could choose where the story went next.

Should Brent get on the pirate ship? Turn to page 31.

Should he follow the Masked Man? Turn to page 46.

Really exciting stuff for a six year old. Problem was, if you made the wrong choice, sometimes Brent would die. Well I used to cheat so bad at those books. I’d hold my thumb at the page where I had to make the decision, and if it turned out to be the wrong one? Well I’d turn back and make the right choice.

All too often that’s how it works in real-life. Made the wrong choice? No harm, no foul, buddy! Go back, get it right this time! Too boring for me, let me make some mistakes. Let me make the biggest mistake of my life. Let me die of the worst mistake ever made in recorded history. At least it can be said I followed through on something.

“Well obviously it’s too late now.” She sighed in that disapproving parent way that digs into the skull. “What did I do wrong, can you tell me that?”

You didn’t get me the Castle Greyskull playset, Mom. It screwed me up for life.

“I’m serious, did we do something that you need to talk about?”

I actually do some things because I like them, not because I’ve been screwed up in some way.

“Was it Little League? We pushed you too hard, I know. We thought we were doing the right thing, trying to get you involved with other kids.”

Without a word I continued to my room and slammed the door shut. After a minute I could hear her resuming the Changing of the Bulbs. That was all I wanted, to be left alone; for life to go on around me without grinding to a halt because I’d chosen to personalize the skin-suit I lived in.

And it did go on, until my Father got home.

When I heard the front door open, my stomach took it’s place snugly under my lungs again. I muted the TV to listen. Dull murmurs were all I could make out, with the last murmur sounding awfully like a raised “What?”.

Hardly a second later, my door swung open. “Can I talk to you in the kitchen?” my Dad’s head popped in just long enough to ask, then disappeared without waiting for the answer. That’s because a question that doesn’t need an answer isn’t a question at all.

I had to ask myself, what would Brent do in this situation.

Should he go to the kitchen? Turn to page 23.

Should he sneak out the window and run screaming into the night? Page 55.

“I don’t even know what to say to you.” He started when I sat across from him. Interestingly, the longest speeches always start with a statement like that. He swallowed a full handful of antacids. “Did someone make you do it?” His eyes were staying locked on mine, not wanting to look down at it. “I can’t imagine you did something this monumentally stupid on your own.”

A friend of mine had something done too, but it was my idea. No-one pressured me, peer-pressure is a lame excuse no matter what. I don’t even think peer-pressure exists.

“You better believe it does. You don’t realize it but that’s why you kids do insane things like this." Mom was floating around nearby, not taking sides. She didn’t like what I’d done either, but she wasn’t about to get in the path of one of Dad’s lectures.

Don’t make me out to be crazy when this is the sanest thing I’ve ever done.

My dad laughed this comment off in that way parents can make you feel like nothing you say ever actually means anything. No thought you’ve ever had is worth digesting to their fully-developed minds. Then they turn around and wonder where the resentment comes from. Must be hormones.

“When you get older you’ll regret doing this so much.” he said. “I’ve seen so many guys go through this, with different things, but it’s the same result.” he said. “Do you realize you’ll have to live with this forever?” he said.

I couldn’t explain to him that this was the very reason I’d done it. But remember, my thoughts aren’t real. My words are just for pretend until I get older. This is the practice round.

“I just…I can’t believe you could be so stupid.”

Should Brent punch his father in the face? Turn to page 60.

I pushed my chair away and left the table.

“I’m not done talking about this”, and he sounded insulted. I just walked away, not hearing him, not letting his words do anything but push me toward the door. “You better believe you’re not leaving yet!”, and I put on my coat. “If you open that door you’re punished indefinitely!”, and I opened the door and walked out.

Outside it was dark and the wind was blowing through my coat as if I hadn’t bothered to put one on over the sticky bandages. But I didn’t care, or rather I couldn’t care because I wasn’t about to go back.

These are the true results of generation gaps, what happens when one group of people discovers something that the previous group never did. My Dad, who knows what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s jealous that I’m young and he’s not, still able to make changes. Maybe he’s been angry ever since I turned two and learned the empowering word, “No”. Maybe he really just doesn’t get it. This’ll never stop, and maybe it never should. Maybe adulthood is achieved by ripping yourself out of your parents idea of normal.

My Great-Grandparents back in the sixties did it with long hair and loud music, the now silly symbols of anti-establishment.

My Grandparents added permanence with tattoos, huge paintings on flesh that never washed off.

My parents, they had to mix in the element of uneasiness with piercings, unnatural and uncomfortable-looking additions to the body, often stretched to the point of permanent damage to the area.

We were no different than them, we were just doing it in a way they didn’t understand because that’s how it had to be. We chose to be fiercely unique because it was the only way worth being. My parents did it, I just did it better. No big deal.

So I had my arm amputated, so what?

Besides, it looks so fucking cool.