Greetings. My name is Black Hockey Jesus. Says so right on my birth certificate. Remember when Pony Boy Curtis said that to Cherry Valance in The Outsiders? I’m already lying. Expect it. It doesn’t really say that on my birth certificate. It says Jon. But, you must admit, it would be cool if my birth certificate did say Black Hockey or Soda Pop or The Wild Black Dog Lurking Behind The Moon Who Is Said To Devour Each Moment In His Voracious Maw. Who would mess with me then?
Anyway, my name is Black Hockey Jesus. You might consider this a name that the “real” Jon hides behind, but you’d be wrong. It’s more like an empty name, something more fundamental than my given name, a container from which the fantasy of Jon, among others, emerges. Nice to meet you.
I conceived of writing this blog to explore the fantasy of myself as Father. I’m a Dad. I’ve been a Dad for almost 10 years but it’s a notion that’s shockingly resistant to sinking in. You know when you wake up and you think it’s Saturday but it’s really Monday? Then it hits you: oh man it’s Monday. Sometimes it hits me like that: whoa! I’m a Dad. Other times it’s like I think it’s Friday but it’s really Saturday and I think: hey! I’m a Dad. There’s so many ways my Dadness Dads, but it’s always a little like I’m waking from a dream.
I emerge as this Dad in relation to Jackson, 9, and Lucy, 4. The only possibility of our survival is grounded in the being of Angelina, the heart of our family. Angelina shook me from my poststructural godlessness and turned me into some goofy Greek pagan convinced he traffics with divinity. Don’t get me started. We live with 2 cats, Pan & Luna, in a master planned community where nobody knows our names. This is the context wherein my rage wavers between repression and eruption.