The Soul’s Silent Scream
Dedicated to Honorable Judge Dana U. Wakefield There it was. Did you hear it? The sound from the abyss. Unspeakable pain borne with no outlet. A wordless cry for help. For love. Identity. Meaning. Security. Contact. Under control, the Scream is a growing ache; wild dogs in the basement a la Bradshaw. Snarling, eating, snapping, gnawing each organ, each appendage, every synapse, even layers of skin. A slow death, but at least more predictable than the onslaught of the entire pack at once. In the distance — Did you hear it? A Baby Boy Allmon made of gametes from a commercial artist and a secretary, Told goodbye before knowing the meaning of hello. Honorable intent assumed. Presumed? Exhumed? Perfumed? Did the nurses hear my soul scream lying in the hospital waiting to be chosen? Or did they mistake it for my voice? Bottles don’t hug back. In the picture — Did you see it? A five year old boy bedecked in bow tie and plaid jacket, Mouth forming a smile but eyes forming a scream, Having discovered only that year
that another mother conceived, Brought him into the world and gave him away (to wonderful new parents.) Cheerful birth announcements read: “I wasn’t expected – I was selected!” But who is Baby Boy Allmon? They say I cried frequently, at least until I could be trained to scream silently. For the record — Have you read it? Soul screaming, like fine wine, becomes more sophisticated with age. Yessir, nosir. Yes’m, no ma’am. Piano prodigy. Honor roll. All-American boy. Student leader. Letterman. Scholarship. Awards Poor boundaries. Molestation – Was I that hungry to bond with someone/anyone, or just unsure there was a self to defend? Early signs of addiction to pain killers: thumb, food, endorphines, alcohol, religion, sex, Inability to commit wholeheartedly to family, romance, friends, career, God, or self (as whom to love thy neighbor) for fear of re-abandonment (Which, therefore, happened.) Who the hell is Baby Boy Allmon and why won’t he stop screaming? In your heart — Can you feel it? The alienation. The disconnectedness. The rage.
The powerlessness over life-changing decisions made before I had The ability let alone The right to agree or object. The desperation for one glimpse at anyone genetically like me. The willingness to bankrupt myself for one hour of honest conversation with The two people who gave me life. The fear of perpetuating an unknown hereditary medical condition. The deep resentment that a man whose name is preceded by The word “Honorable” may be content to let Baby Boy Allmon scream for his mother until The two of them are only commemorated by headstones, and The three of them stand before The One who champions love, justice, orphans, and is truly The Judge. Can you fell anything? Can you see anything? Do you hear anything? I’ve heard Baby Boy Allmon all day, every day for thirty four years. Please help me to help him stop screaming. The longer we wait, The louder it gets. © Rich Uhrlaub