‘The Things I See… and The Things I Hide’

GJ Gillespie is a collage artist living in a 1928 farmhouse overlooking Oak Harbor on Whidbey Island, WA. A prolific artist with 23 awards to his name, his work has been exhibited in 70 shows and appeared in more than 195 publications.

The Things I See… and The Things I Hide

For most of my adult life, I have worn glasses, and I believe that the clear lenses through which I look daily have had a profound impact on my life. It was a week after I had sex for the first time with my sister’s best friend during a free period in school that I first wore glasses. We went to her house.I had fifty minutes but only needed two. The first minute was due to my confusion, and a quick 30-second crash course on female anatomy was necessary. In the second minute, I was tested on my short-term memory for information retention. It was easy; I just let my hardwired animal instinct take over. Done. Afterwards, she said, ‘It’s not such a big deal, right?’ It was not what I wanted to hear and psychologically warped me.  

In class a week later, on a green chalkboard, my male math teacher, who sweated every month of the academic year, taught my class about quadratic equations:

x2 + 5x + 6 = 0

Pretty basic, and I can still solve it some forty years later:

x2 + 5x + 6 = (x + 2) (x + 3) = 0

So:

X + 2 = 0 => x = - 2, x + 3 = 0 => -3

I had a hard time seeing the exponential numbers, and that’s what led me to have my eyes tested. Straight off, it was apparent I needed glasses. I didn’t choose any frames at the optometrist because I had already found a fabulous pair of glasses that my grandfather owned. I punched out the lenses and wore them to steal the look of my favorite rock star. His hair was cut short, he wore very baggy clothing, and one of my favorite quotes of his was, ‘Postcards look better than the real thing.’ It was a cool look. They—the glasses— were raintree in color, and the temple arms extended straight back and did not wrap around my ear. Feeling uncomfortable with how they felt, I constantly shifted them on my face as they rode my nose like a novice on a horse.  As they chafed trying to settle in, I thought about lying naked on her bed and what it felt like to have sex.  At the end of the class, we took a pop quiz. I failed.  

Having two sisters and a father is how I learned about undesired physical contact. My sisters—one older and one younger—and I would always argue and fight. I punched. They bit and scratched. My younger sister was given a silver bracelet from India that was initially circular, but after it was weaponized, it shape-shifted like a superhero into an oval shape. This is when I learned that a scar was a visual reminder of when your body was damaged—an unforgettable memory. I’ve always thought scars were more telling and meaningful than tattoos.  

I have two scars on my face. Neither of them is noticeable without a thorough investigation. The first one I got was when I was seven, and my mother’s cousin came to visit.  He is a painter and wishes he were born a Native American, and he dresses like a Sioux Indian.  Thick long beard, small wire glasses like John Lennon, and long braided hair that reached his waist. He would wrap them in Buffalo hides with the fur on the outside.  Now, 50 years later, having to be PC, he raps them in cloth. Together, we watch the spaghetti western “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.” Both of us liked guns. I found a plastic machine gun with the trigger broken off, so it could no longer make a sound. I was excited to show him my gun. My mother and he were seated at the table, and I ran to the playroom where my gun was buried in a cedar chest.  I had to take a steep step up before entering the playroom. I misjudged its height and split open my chin. The head and face bleed and always look very traumatic. I went downstairs crying as blood cascaded down my shirt—trip to the ER, four stitches.  

A horsing dragging was the reason I obtained my other scar on my left cheek that runs parallel with the jaw line.  had a riding lesson and was shown and instructed to tighten the girth before getting on my horse. I didn’t. We were galloping along under an alley of Crimson King Maple trees when my saddle fell off to the right. Time slowed, and I was dragged about one hundred yards. When I stopped, it felt as though I was chewing a piece of iron-flavored gum, and I could stick my tongue through the hole in my cheek, ‘Hey, Mom, look!’  She didn’t laugh—trip to the island clinic, six stitches.  

With the knowledge of my glasses always being on my face, I have shied away from fights. I’ve never been hit in the face, and I understand that when my glasses are accidentally hit, the nose pads dig in and cause a raw, tender area. Fortunately, I don’t know what a blow to the jaw feels like. Also, without glasses, I cannot read the intent carried in the eye of my aggressor and the quick movements of their fist that may follow. Like an animal in the wild, I build my behavior on self-preservation.

There was a moment I was sleeping naked in a car with a girlfriend, no glasses to see and no underwear to cradle my parts. I was vulnerable. A drunk man opened the door looking for alcohol. I did nothing while he rummaged. I was scared, and later, I felt pathetic. 

A decade passed, and I was riding a commuter train late on a Friday night after a Famous football club game. Many of its fans were in my car, drunk, wearing their colored scarves, and celebrating their win. I was seated in the direction of travel with a 15-seat buffer and saw a father and son being rowdy. Spending thirteen years in public safety, I was well aware of how situations developed and monitored the progression. Next to this father-son pair was a group of young Asian teenagers, two males and two females. The drunk father soon stood above them and started harassing them. I guessed it was a racial confrontation. They did not verbally engage. Escalating the situation, the father reached down and began to strangle a young adult male.  Without thought, I approached and puffed my chest and raised my voice. Physically, I was his superior, and he yielded, released the reddened neck, and retreated to his seat. I informed the conductor, and the two were thrown off. From the platform, as the doors closed, the son screamed, ‘I can’t believe you grassed on us.’  I later learned what ‘grassed’ meant.  

That night, I was wearing my contacts.  

William Watson is a published writer and believes that if you watch a place long enough, something profound will be revealed. He continues to wait patiently. Originally from Boston, Massachusetts, William attended Yale University and earned an MFA from Bard College.