| snapcrackle reed |
[27 Jan 2011|11:36am] |
 as legend states, reed mccale was born on april 24th, 1990 with french on the tongue and a book in his hand. or no, maybe he had come from the womb already wearing an argyle sweatervest. the variations on this tale are endless. from day one, james and anna mccale strived to make the best out of their little boy. words like "lawyer" and "harvard" and "master's degree" swirled over baby reed's head, sinking in early when he wanted to do nothing more than wave his little fingers and poop himself. they took this as the go-ahead and their plans were kicked into motion.
money wasn't an issue in beacon hill, massachusetts, not to the son of a successful lawyer and trophy wife homemaker. special preschool, french lessons, honors courses, charm school. reed was raised to be the perfect gentleman, armed with a stunning vocabulary and impressive collection of pressed khaki pants. he'd conquered table manners, the french revolution, and how to make a chocolate souffle that wouldn't collapse. basically, his parents had successfully raised a socially retarded robot. private school was every man for himself (especially for the kid who had skipped a grade), and none of the kids on his street wanted to be friends with the weirdo. he had resigned himself to a life of textbooks and uniforms, it wasn't so bad. he had been encouraged to take music lessons, where reed learned just about every instrument under the sun. piano, guitar, bass, cello, horn. he'd never met an instrument he didn't like, and his fingers had the magic touch for music. but it was only a hobby, his parents would see to that.
reed had accepted the truth of his lonely life, until the summer before his sophomore year of high school. they were moving, a law firm that offered better pay and a bigger house (did they really need a bigger house?). either way, opportunity brought the mccales to longport, new jersey. reed was still locked away in the snooty grip of private school, but for the first time, he was meeting normal kids. next-door neighbor trevor was there to provide a crash course in "not being a dork", preparing reed for a world of having friends and not always being the smartest kid in the class. khakis became jeans, oxfords became t-shirts. reed went on a personal mission to educate himself. he threw himself whole-heartedly into hair dye, flatbrim hats, high-top sneakers.
maybe the most important part, the music. pop, country, hip-hop, r&b, metal. he traded away his tchaikovsky for good, old-fashioned rock and roll. the entire thing fascianted him. suddenly, reed didn't want to go to harvard. he didn't want to be a lawyer. he wanted this. he wanted to be in a band and tour the world. he just wanted to make music. his parents took less than amicably to the news. actually, take that back. this was an understatement. his parents freaked. the thirty-minute-screaming-and-crying-and-yelling-and-shouting-and-"you couldn't have become more of a disappointment" debacle was heart-warming. it was probably a bad time to tell them he was gay too.
and maybe, at the end of the day, he'd picked his music over his family. things certainly haven't been the same since reed "drifted from his goals". his dad won't speak to him, his mom is torn. they both don't love him nearly as much as they used to. they stopped coming to his piano recitals. stopped encouraging him, stopped doing much of anything involving him. it's almost as if they just crossed him out of their lives, out of their perfect plan. they pushed their baby boy out into the world to be a rockstar. and that's okay too. things will get better, he just has to give it time. he's actually doing what he wants for a change, and he's being himself for the first time in seventeen years. it's so much better than the sweatervests.
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