Assless in America

by Thomas M. Pender

I have a birth defect, which is rarely discussed in public.  It’s apparently genetic, as my father before me had the same defect.  It’s been the cause of pain and heartache, as well as shame and embarrassment.

I have no butt.

I used to have one, back when I was thin as a rail.  In fact, back then a butt was all I had physique-wise!  A bump halfway up the broom, if you will.  As I started to gain normal weight, however, the distribution of the added poundage was not exactly even.  Plenty of people complain that too much weight ends up on their posterior, but mine was the opposite problem: thighs fatter, check; love handles visible, check; stomach bigger, CHECK!  Everywhere in the derriere neighborhood was getting “pound-ed,” but apparently my behind was not invited to the calorie-fest.  Soon, with the expansion of fat above and beneath it, it simply went away.

There are some actual problems associated with this lack-o’-tushy syndrome, too.  With nothing underneath to cushion a sitting position, I can’t be comfortable sitting anywhere with little or no padding.  This has been an issue every time I’ve been in a church with only non-padded wooden pews, and also public events that feature metal folding chairs.  When I was younger and thinner, you could actually hear the bones collide with the harder surfaces if I sat down hard!  I was also known to sit on Mom’s lap throughout my teens, and teasingly say that she used to let me sit there, but the joke never lasted long, as Mom would say that my hip bones were digging into her skin.

Here was one reason I could actually look forward to gaining some normal-range weight.  But noooo!  I got the bod curse handed down from Dad.  I remember Mom following Dad up the stairs once, and Mom grabbed a handful of Levi’s denim where his body should have been.  “Look!  There’s no butt!” she announced, and the household erupted in laughter.  You just gotta love silly parents.  Nowadays, however, it’s not so much humorous as irritating . . . and I get mocked on occasion, too.  The prime-time cartoon series King of the Hill did an entire (and, admittedly, hilarious) episode dedicated to the fact that central character Hank Hill had no behind.  He ended up having to wear a kind of backward-silicone-implant thingy in order to sit comfortably.  This was shown for entertainment value, but it just may come to that one day.  Horrors!

As far as I can tell so far, my boys have not carried the assless gene.  Still, I suppose I’ll have to wait until they hit their twenties to really find out.  In the meantime, please pray for my sons’ butts.  Thanks.

Two Little Devils And A Lady With A Fan

by Thomas M. Pender

Dad went into the Navy right out of high school.  He sailed to ports around the globe aboard the aircraft carrier U.S.S. Ticonderoga, then returned to marry Mom.  Then they were fruitful and multiplied.

When Dad returned from his travels, he looked a bit different.  There were pictures on his white skin that hadn’t been there when he’d left.  On his right arm was a drawing of a scroll, with his military ID number on it.  On his left, the head and shoulders of a lady dressed in frilly headdress and dress, with an equally frilly fan covering her face, leaving only the eyes revealed.  On his shoulder blades, facing each other, were twin cherubs . . . or half-cherubs, sort of.  The one on the left was a girl and the one on the right was a boy.  Each had wings and a halo, and stood on a small cloud.  However, each also had wee devilish horns atop his or her head, a pointed tail and a pitchfork.

These pictures could be interpreted in many ways, but when we were very young, my sister Debi and I believed as Dad told us: that the two characters on his back were pictures of us.  The little boy imp did appear to be blonde, and the female did seem to be a brunette . . . so why not?  I had no problem believing that he had put us on his back.  I do remember staring at the eyes of the lady many times, trying to figure out if she was Mom.  Dad may have said it was her, or I may have assumed it was, but there was something mysterious in that face, which only revealed the eyes.

When I was old enough to repeat the story Dad told, and my younger sister Kristi was old enough to comprehend, I would explain (while touching each tattoo) that Mom and Deb and I were each represented, telling her that Dad had gotten the tattoos before she was born.  (In my retroactive defense, this was the truth.  It just didn't occur to me that it was also before any of us kids were born!)  I was very proud to be artistically represented.  He would tell us that the devilish/angelic combo represented the goodness and naughtiness in us, and this made sense to me, in my childlike way.  I didn’t find the negative aspect insulting, and I probably clung to the positive aspect, thinking myself more an angel than a devil of a child . . . as most of us did, I imagine.

Sadly, these tattoos can now only be spotted in stray photographs of Dad.  As for myself, I was never really drawn (no pun intended . . . well, okay, maybe a little) to having art put on my body.  In my late twenties, an idea struck me that still intrigues me, though I have never gone through with it.  At first, I imagined large angel wings tattooed on my back.  After some thought, I decided that this would be much too expensive and painful to deal with.  My compromise was a pair of angel wings on my right shoulder, complete with a halo above them.  Under the wings, I would write simply “Dad.”  Years later, I realized that I would also have to add the name “Kristi” when my sister passed.  (Also “Sammy,” but that’s another story for another time.)

When I imagined these adult tattoos for myself, they were completely original ideas.  They were not meant to be based on nor echo the "angelic" shoulder blade art of my father.  Only years later did I realize that I would be carrying on a bit of a family tradition if I went through with my idea.

And that's cool, too!

My Father Never Called Me Tom

by Thomas M. Pender

 

My father never called me Tom.

He called me Little Guy,

then Grump,

then Bosco,

then Stretch.

Thomas Michael when I was in trouble.

He called Debi Skeeter.

Kristi was Punkin.

Mom was Willard.  She hated it

but loved it.

We never called my father Father.

My father was a Daddy, then

a Dad, then

an Old Fart.  He answered to

Hey You.

Never Father.

My dad told me he loved me in

a million ways except

by saying “I love you.”  I

couldn’t tell him either.  But we knew.

written by t. michael pender  3/8/88

copyright 1988 T. Michael Pender.  All rights reserved.