I think it was some time around the 4th grade that I met Brady. He was an average-sized, redheaded, freckled, white American kid. He came from a family of outdoorsmen and hunters. His Dad was a stoic man who walked with a cane - I believe due to bad knees. His Mom was a beautiful, tall, blonde woman who looking back, I believe I had a bit of a crush on. She made us sandwiches, and I was always greeted with cheerful smile. I remember everything being better when she was around. Brady had two older brothers, and an older sister. He was the youngest. And as many “youngests” do, Brady could do just about anything he wanted. He was creative, adventurous, and had all of the tools to create chaos at his disposal. And yet, despite all the trouble he would stir up, I would always somehow be the one to be labeled “the troublemaker”. And I guess word traveled fast. To this day I still remember calling my friend Matt to see if we could go play, and he told me that his Mom thought I was a “bad influence”, so he wasn’t able to. THE “bad influence” of the bunch. Me. Little, 12 year-old Dylan.
Ironically, I never wanted to do anything wrong. Ever. I never wanted trouble. And anything remotely questionable, I wanted no part of. This is absolutely true. I wish I could pretend that I was a little, unapologetic badass. I was the opposite. I was just too damn afraid…of just about everything. It could have been my inherent nature. It could have been my Mormon upbringing. It was probably a combination of the two. Brady, on the other hand, wanted to raise hell. Maybe not so much in an evil, malicious way; but the kid did not know what fear was. No height was too high, no hour was too late. My mother still jokes about how she just never knew how many pieces I’d come home in after a sleepover at the Fairbanks. It’s where I was exposed to horror movies. It’s where I would sneak out of a house for the first time, and begin a life of constant, late-night trespassing. It’s where I would throw my first snowball at a car. It’s where I saw my first drunk person. It’s where I would frequently get injured. It’s where there was virtually almost no parental supervision. It was as close to a 21st century version of Lord of the Flies I’d ever seen. And despite going back, day-after-day, weekend-after-weekend…..I somehow just remember always wanting to be safe, at home, where nothing bad would happen. I was a young, walking contradiction.
I was a gentle kid. I loved music, art, and popular culture. I wrote in a journal, liked to draw, and copied down song lyrics that I heard on the radio. I genuinely cared about people and remember having long talks with other kids who were struggling with life. I wanted to be a friend to everyone. I never wanted anyone to fight or feel pain. I guess this made me a target for bullies, because I was picked on through my adolescent years - often getting shoved around and punched in the school hallways. I never really told anyone. And despite knowing that I had a lot to offer, it took a toll on me. I found refuge in my church, and I was recognized as a very ‘spiritual’ person, even at a very young age. I was well-read in religious doctrines and spoke often in meetings, etc. - frequently crying at the pulpit, and pouring my heart out to the congregation. In the safe confines of the church walls, this was welcomed and even encouraged. Outside, however, the predators would circle, and devour when the opportunities presented themselves. To them, I was weak, and it was an opportunity to affirm their strength. I saw this persecution as a test, so I would do my best to ignore it; although inside, I was fragile.
Years would pass. I grew into my feet and added muscle - no longer the scrawny target that I was in my youth. I lacked life experience and good direction, so I stumbled for a few years, often favoring girls and parties over responsibilities. It was rough, but I kept moving forward. I made several significant, life-altering choices, one which took me across the country, and would begin a decade of living outside of Utah. As uncomfortable, and lonely as this decade would be, it would lay the groundwork for a new life for me. One where I was the architect, not the sterile culture that once surrounded me. I became strong. I became smart. I started to see the things that made me a richer person, and rid myself of anything else. I was liberated, and free to be whoever I wanted. More importantly, I wasn’t burdened by ideas. Not necessarily ideas that I had about myself, but the ideas that others had about me. I settled for the first time, truthfully, in a place where I enjoyed good relationships, my hobbies, and saw the value in an honest, genuine life.
In a strange turn of events, and after a decade on the East Coast, I returned to Utah two years ago, this week. It’s been a strange sort of homecoming. My High School looks smaller than I remember. There are parts of the valley that were once farmland, now covered with tract homes. My nieces and nephews are of driving age. Not surprisingly, I rarely see the people I grew up with. Last I heard, Brady Fairbanks has several kids, is married, and lives in the suburbs. I hear he’s doing great, and I’m happy to see that he escaped his childhood unharmed, and in one piece. I’m sure my bullies are out there somewhere, too. I forgave them years ago, but I still remember their names. “Karma”, justice, and revenge were tempting ideas for a long time; but ultimately, unfulfilling. And it’s possible that they’ve changed, as I.
I’ve lost some things over the years that I wish could exist in this world unpunished. I’ve become more hardened. I’m a skeptic. I don’t blindly trust people or systems. I share my thoughts less than I used to. My emotions have subsided, and I’m a man of reason. I jokingly say sometimes that I’m not sure my tear ducts work anymore. I have some friends that say they’re saddened by this, but I’m not. I’ve had the opportunity to be on both sides, and each is valuable in it’s own right. I’m not afraid anymore. I’m no longer fragile. I’m not burdened by dogma. I’ve become a protector...But ultimately, I have to remind myself that there are so many more sides than two. So much land to navigate, and so much ground to cover. I can’t expect to continue to be the “me” of today, as much as I wouldn’t continue to be the “me” of my childhood. And the “me” of today will not be the “me” of tomorrow. Yet, the walking contradiction I embody, lingers… And my desire for reason is eclipsed by the concept of “hope” - a concept that sometimes to me sounds more like a wish. A hope that in a place sometimes without justice, without safe haven, without fairness, that we will all rise to someplace better, and be a little more patient as we watch each other get there…
