Thank you, Henry Rollins

I took my son Jacob to see Henry Rollins on his spoken word tour: Good to See You in Portland, Maine. I looked forward to this event for months and I was not disappointed! 

I am embarrassed to say, years ago before the internet I had NO idea who Henry Rollins was. I finally figured it out when I read a few of his LA Weekly columns and had to re-read them because he was so damn smart and I read really fast. Well, I eventually realized that one of my brother Josh's, very first "professional" tattoos, the four rectangles on his right forearm, represented the band Black Flag, which Rollins' was the lead singer for. AH HA! 

The other tattoos Josh had before the Black Flag one were done when he was under 18 and traded Allen's Coffee Brandy for the ink. Allen's is after all, THE number one best selling liquor in Maine. You could tell from looking at both those tattoos, the tattoo artist was getting more and more drunk as he completed them. They both had lines that diverged into multiple do-overs on top of the original crooked lines. And both of these tattoos were in what I have been told are more painful areas to have tattoos: around his upper arm and underneath and the inside of his forearm. I have never had a tattoo so I don't know if there is truth to this, but, ouch. He seemed to take the Black Flag tattoo more seriously. It was four very straight and filled in black rectangles. No do over lines and all the fill was within the lines! Josh's joy in this world was being in a band and playing guitar, so this is probably why he took that tattoo so seriously. 

When I was able to get my brother's 1968 Gibson SG that he had received for his 16th birthday, inside the case was a taped photo of four people who I didn't recognize. It's a good thing he left the credits on the bottom of it. 

Jacob was able to meet his uncle Josh a few times before he died, but was only two years old the last time he saw him so he doesn't remember. He does seem to have some spiritual connection to him though. My brother was a skateboarder in his teen years. Jacob took to using a longboard as a form of transportation in his teen years. Jacob has also wanted a tattoo like Josh's, the one of the four black rectangles. I think it was only recently that he learned it was for Black Flag. 

When Henry Rollins told a story about a stalker he had recently, and how the kid had told a police officer that he was invited by Henry - that familiar sinking in my stomach from the time when my brother Josh had asked me if I ever "heard voices," was back. This kid likely had schizophrenia just like my brother. I hoped this story had a better ending than my brother's. It made me hopeful to hear how Henry Rollins showed the kid compassion and empathy. If only my brother had been treated that way, maybe, just maybe, he would still be physically on this earth. I am, as always, grateful for the 26 years I had with him and the lessons he taught myself and the world around him. 

On the hour long drive home, I imagined how much my brother would have really enjoyed seeing Henry Rollins. Josh and I both admire intelligence and humility. I couldn't help but well up in quiet tears thinking about this. Grief never goes away. I didn't want my son to notice I was crying so I redirected my sadness to think about how awesome it is that I even know who Henry Rollins is and it's because of my brother, in addition to all the other facts and types of compassion and empathy he taught me. Most of all, this event was one of the few things my 22-year old son, Jacob and I could enjoy together, thanks to my brother - his uncle. Because of my brother's Black Flag tattoo, Jacob knows who Henry Rollins is too. 

Josh died over 18 years ago but the grief is still the same as it was on February 23rd, 2004. He was my last surviving sibling and my witness. In some ways this grief helps keep me humble and empathetic. I know there are a lot more people in this world that have a loved family member with schizophrenia or other serious mental illness and have likely self-medicated to try and cope with their symptoms. In 2004, when my brother died of a heroin overdose, it was called a "bad batch." There is no such thing as a "good batch" of heroin.