I had been invited to hold some sort of dialogue with my shadow.

Carl Jung suggests the shadow embodies that part of ourselves that we humans separate from and repress. The part of us that doesn't seem acceptable in the world around us, we embody in the shadow.

Now, like I said, I had been wanted to engage in a dialogue with my shadow. Some folks might find this invitation intriguing and perhaps down-right inviting. Not me, however. You see, I have already had that conversation and I assure you that my shadow and I are no longer on speaking terms.

Not only are we not on speaking terms but I rarely even acknowledge his presence anymore. This fact is quite probably due to his character, or, actually, lack of character. You see, character can be defined as doing the right thing even when no-one is looking. And my shadow's character is defective by its own very nature.

When I say that we are not on speaking terms –it's not like we don't communicate- he talks to me constantly; I wish he'd shut-up. And ignoring him doesn't help much either. I can't get away from him and I consistently fail to elude him. He is worse than a doppelganger; that being autonomous and having only the ability to damage my reputation. My shadow is more Mr. Hyde in that we, he and I, are, in reality, inseparable. And here he has not only the ability to damage my reputation but has the capacity to convince me to willfully damage my character by acting out on his defects.

Where I set the alarm clock to go off early enough in the morning to give me a full ninety minutes of time before leaving for work to eat, read, bathe and meditate. My shadow repeatedly races (and beats) me to the snooze bar until a paltry twenty minutes are left to fulfill my entire morning ritual, (and he pushes to make it ten!) leaving me to scrape the ice off my windshield with still-wet hair until five minutes before my scheduled departure time. And then he wants me to do 85 on the interstate to make up for the lost time!

He grows his hair long and doesn't shave for days! He blows off homework assignments and acts as if he can "cram" for the exam and actually pass! He sleeps in the middle of the day and stays up all night. He drinks too much and hangs out with junkies, thieves and prostitutes. He only wears black t-shirts. He deliberately scares people for amusement. He tells people things that they'd be better off not knowing, like how to hot-wire a car or who really masterminded 9-11.

You see, when I say that we are not on speaking terms, it is because that there can be no positive recourse in such intertwining. It's not like I haven't tried; there's just no talking to him. He either doesn't care or just-plain-won't listen. I know this from experience because I know what exactly it is that makes him tick. You see, I have talked with him, I have walked with him. I have seen him and I have been him.

Only, then,

Dear Sir,

Having been assigned the arduous task of writing a letter to someone whom has had a significant influence on my life, it took me a great deal of time to summon the memory of someone who had been a positive force in my development. I came up empty. Then, I thought of you. You've hardly shined as the positive example that one might expect of their own father, in fact, your apparent magnitude in that realm, quite literally, approaches stellar proportions. And that was if I got to see you at all.

As a child I recall adoring you so much that I would follow you around incessantly when you were home and how you always seemed to be preoccupied with things that I could not participate in with you because, for one reason or other, you would not permit me. As an adult, I am unable to allow people who truly care about me to get close to me. Not only that, I, also, have what seems, at times, an insatiable desire to pursue individuals in relationships where I require their approval and rarely, if ever, get it. Yet I continue this exercise in futility with undying fervor.

The few months I spent with you while attending High School taught me what it really means to "be a man", so I thought. For many years I left the bank on Friday for the bar before ever going to the grocery store or paying the rent. I began to see why it was that we always moved every three or four years when we were kids; I never managed to stay any place that long as an adult.

I recall the bruises on the faces of your wife and child left by you for what, even then, seemed to be petty reasons. You beat my brother over an album that you got me for my birthday because you were pissed off at him when you found out that I already had that album in my collection. Similarly, a bruise appeared on your wife's face the day after I had put the Christmas party leftovers down the disposal at her direction. They wore these badges of their indiscretions much to my chagrin. These random acts of rage that you executed upon members of the family have left me with the inability to tolerate the smallest deviations from my own agenda. I find it all too easy to perpetuate that which is familiar, no matter how barbaric it may be.

All of this coupled with your seemingly innocuous, yet sardonic, sense of wisdom left me with the inability to draw upon a positive example when it comes to matters requiring the good judgment necessary in bringing up my son to be a responsible, emotionally balanced human being. Not only this but I still see things in a very cynical sort of way and think that to be quite normal. I recollect you telling my brothers that "No one is completely useless, at the very least they can always serve as a bad example: …don't be like your brother…"

Today, I use that bit of advice to your discredit when I require an example to follow in raising your grandson. You see, I just remember what you did, then I … well, then … I don't.

See you in Hell,

Jr.

            I pulled the red edge of my debit card from the small black credit-card-carrier after thumbing past assorted identification, a variety of audio/video/literary membership and way-over-the-limit credit cards. The old Formica counter-top stopped several of the fluttering cards once they sprang from their leather confinement, cascading haphazardly across the age-worn and nicotine-stained surface. Frustrated, I tossed the card in my right hand amidst the scattered pile realizing that this, too, had been exhausted.  My one good credit card, the one I needed, had continued its spiraling journey across the coconut-colored island, over the precipice at the far side and, now, lay at the feet of the gaunt, but sturdy, dark-skinned man wearing a Mississippi string-tie.

            The light from the bodega's Contac-paper, stained-glass window festered in the divots of the man's acne-scarred face, which seemed to prefer to reflect the bright lavenders and dark purples above the crimson and azure tints that touched-down round-about the interior of the store. He shot me a contemptuous look, as if I had taken some deliberate action in order to place him in a subservient position.

            "You're going to miss your flight", he said as I stuffed the cards back into their sleeve.  He calmly continued, "It is imperative that you make this connection in order for you to fulfill your obligation." And his, "You do understand that, …don't you" was more statement of fact than rhetorical question.

            I glanced in the direction of his feet knowing he knew my thoughts. If time is such a pressing matter to him, he could simply retrieve my last tangible financial resource for me versus my walking all the way down the aisle - past the bags of plaintain chips and six-packs of ginger beer around the end-cap where foot-tall votive candles of Mary and Jesus were found and back, up past hand-tied, twine-bound stacks of periódicos to the place where he stood, right now, among los libros cómicos just to bend over at his feet to pick up the only VISA card I had left that wasn't over its limit, then make trip all the way back to where I am standing at this very moment in time (which seems so precious to him) rather than just bend over and pick the card up and hand it to me himself.

            Once again he glared at me. As he turned around and looked downward to spot the card I noticed the same colors playing on the nappy curls at the back of his head.

            SNAP!

            My attention was immediately drawn to his thumb pressing hard against my card as he placed it in the middle of the empty space before me. I never saw him bend over.

            When it was my turn at the register, I made small talk in Spanish. I motioned slightly over my left shoulder toward the black man standing next to the comic books and asked the guy if he'd ever actually seen the Devil.

            He replied in un-broken, white-bread, suburban-American English, "Yeah, but whenever he talks to me," he paused briefly, glancing slightly to his right, then leaned forward and said in a low voice, "…he always looks like a white guy."