A Revisionist's History: Dorian

My memories begin in a place known to me only as “Dorian.” Dorian, a place not even remotely related to proto-Grecian tribes, refers to a street in Boise, Idaho. I’d say it’s a charming place, but as far as I know that isn’t true. And all that Google Maps can provide is a few blurry street views depicting a place that bears far more resemblance to the Australian Bush than middle America.

Like approximately 145,376,000 Americans, my family resided in a ranch-style home with a single-car garage. My folks parked their 1978 Honda Civic in the garage. And like the car, their Dorian home was a diminutive place—at least by today’s standards. But we were okay with that. They were simple times and we were simple people.


All of my memories of that home are dark, I mean oppressively dark. Maybe there were large trees in front of the home blocking the natural light. Maybe my folks couldn’t afford to keep the lights on. Maybe I had cataracts. Then again, this was the late 70’s and early 80’s before the age of full-length draperies and amber glass had run its course.


Anyway, one day my parents lured me into our living room with the promise of a present. I don’t remember what I was expecting. But whatever it was, it did not prepare me for the complete and utter let down of receiving “big boy” underwear. Call it deceit. Call it euphemism. Call it what you will. There, as I stood in our dimly-lit living room, just for an instant, life threw back the curtain to expose all its bitterness. It would represent the first of many of life’s hard lessons taught on Dorian.

All boys—myself included—enter this world understanding one simple truth: clothes—especially underwear and socks—do not a present make. I remember clearly thinking to myself: “I’m supposed to be excited about this??” As the first-born, I put on a good face, but something died within me that day.