On the Streets of Baton Rouge

I was bruised and battered
And I couldn't tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself.

Springsteen fans, and anyone cognizant of important music in the 20th century, will recognize the above as the opening lines of "The Streets of Philadelphia," a beautiful song featured on the soundtrack of the movie Philadelphia with Tom Hanks.

The movie, as I imagine most of the world knows, is about a guy with AIDS, early in the AIDS epidemic (if you haven't seen it, you should; really). So why are those lyrics playing over and over and over in my head this Sunday night, as the weekend draws to a close? I do not have AIDS. No one I know has AIDS. I know that AIDS is an enormous global crisis, one that I should pay more attention to.

And I will. Truly. I promise.

But right now, I can't. I'm too bruised and battered. I can't tell what I feel. I'm unrecognizable to myself.

I'm not on the streets of Philadelphia. I'm just here, at home, in boring ol' Baton Rouge. (Tho' I gotta say, gumbo vs. cheese steak?? Gumbo wins, hands down.)

The thing is, I've just spent the weekend with Hugh. My 16-year-old son. And, all I can think and hear , the only thing that seems to make sense of the chaos in my heart and the churning in my gut and the ache in my skull is that song:
I was bruised and battered
And I couldn't tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself.

Who do I become when I am with him? Who is this horror? This hectoring, righteous, ill-humored, rigid soul? And who does he become? My beautiful boy, my charming, funny, cheeky, handsome guy? How does he transform into this rude and cruel and self-centered hulk, this mass of IWantIDemandINeed WhatIsWrongWith YouYouAreSoFuckingLame?

When Hugh was 15 months old, I went to London for three weeks to do research. And when I flew home, Keith was there with both boys to meet me in the airport. And Hugh reached out his chubby little arms, smiled, said softly, "My mama," and nestled close.

My Hugh. Baby, where are you?