You know what, fuck it — I’m 34 years old and after living with butcher paper taped to my windows for the past six weeks, I’m excited about drapery. Deal with it.
I haven’t posted since moving in to the new place. Spoiler alert: it’s great. It’s been a lot of work, too, and a huge emotional adjustment to getting back to living by myself again. Sunday will mark one month since I moved in. I can’t wait to see what it looks like and feel how it feels when I’m celebrating one year.
One last look at my office before the packing begins in earnest today. This has been my office since 2008, though it’s changed many times over the years. Working on my flash talk will be the last bit of work I do here. I’m about to burst I’m so nervous and excited for what the next two weeks have in store.
In 2004 I was a recent art school graduate desperately trying to get a job in my field, and I decided that I should dive into learning web standards to try to gain a skill that would set me apart from my competition. I’d had a very low-paying, part-time job since high school updating the web site for the local school board, but since they were paying a college student about $100 a week to keep it updated, it clearly wasn’t a priority for them and as such there wasn’t much to it. I got to work learning the basics of how to build a site. I was looking for something I could teach myself, and first tried Movable Type, finding it to be impossible to learn. I was a fan of Dean Allen’s Textism, so I decided to give Textpattern a shot. I set up my old Power Mac G4 Cube to run it and rapidly was able to figure out what the hell I was doing, quickly enough that I learned that my “server” connected to my mom’s DSL connection wasn’t going to work for much.
I learned about TextDrive’s launch because I was spending a ton of time around the Textpattern forums at the time. I absolutely did not have $200, but I convinced my parents that I was pre-paying for a hosting plan from a reputable business, something I’d have to have to get a job as a web designer. I left out the fact that I was using their money to help fund a startup (five years before Kickstarter was born). But it worked, holy shit did it work; my handbuilt personal site turned into a proper blog with an installation of Textpattern and a real server to host it on. I started hosting sites for friends and small businesses I conned into hiring me as a freelance designer. And along the way, I even did some design work for TextDrive — I had stars in my eyes doing work for a web startup way back in those days. That gig, like signing up for TextDrive in the first place, turned out to be a great idea — it led to the recommendation that got me my job at Automattic. And while I obviously switched to WordPress.com, I’ll always be fond of the Textpattern & TextDrive communities for what I learned from them.
I know the story of TextDrive had many ups and downs, and its ending was less than sweet. I understand why many customers are unhappy with the way things ended. But I’m grateful to Dean, Jason, and all the “VCs” who got TextDrive off the ground. It came along at a crucial time for me, helped teach me how to be a web developer, and helped me launch my career. A lot of where I’ve come in the past 10 years has to do with the opportunities that arose from those early days. So as unlikely as it is that he’ll see this — thank you Dean, for everything, and I hope that you are well.
I don’t have good records from that far back, so I’m not sure about the dates. But based on my rough calculations, as best as I can figure, I spent around $3.50 per month for the life of my TextDrive account. I got almost 10 years of hosting and my dream job, but I never did get the t-shirt.
I’m frequently glad I got a Dropcam, but rarely for the reasons I expected.
The keen observer may have noticed the change of masthead on this blog, and while I’m not typically prone to public introspection, I recognize that a name change outside of marriage (and for a man, in any circumstance) is an unusual enough event in our culture that the matter deserves a bit of explanation.
I was a strange child — this should not come as a surprise to those who know me to be a strange adult. I like to think of myself as inwardly eccentric; I present a fairly reserved public face because I’m not naturally inclined to draw attention to myself (though I admit my addiction to Twitter belies this claim). While I’m a happy introvert these days, my personality stems from a social anxiety I developed as a child and that persists in my adulthood. For years I was unable to recognize the source of that anxiety, which is odd because I’ve never had trouble remembering specific events from my childhood. It’s only been in the past few years that I’ve been able to correctly identify these events as a pattern of abuse. I didn’t write this to dwell on the past or seek sympathy for ancient history. But I was abused by my father at a young age, first physically, and then psychologically as I got older. My dad is an abuser, a master manipulator, and at the moment, a federal prisoner. It’s not a nice thing to say, but sometimes it’s helpful to just start by laying out the facts.
Everything good about me, with the exception of my dad’s intelligence and dark sense of humor, I attribute to the three women who raised me: my mom, Mary; my grandmother, Frances; and my nanny, Mary Maude. Because my parents were public schoolteachers, my mom was afforded little in the way of maternity leave and their tiny salaries couldn’t bear the brunt of her not going back to work, so they managed to set money aside to find a babysitter to take care of me during the day. I don’t remember how they found Mary Maude, but what started out as a babysitting job became family; I think of her as one of my moms. My grandmother was also a regular fixture in my life; my brother John and I had the good fortune of being the only grandchildren who lived in the same small town my grandparents did, and we happily monopolized their time. Their house was my second home and my refuge. A standard vacation for my parents was a Saturday night at home alone while I slept at my grandparents’ house. A really luxurious, every-few-years vacation for them was a week at the State Park while my grandparents took me to our family farm, the house my great-grandfather built out in the country.
My grandparents nurtured all my interests: artistic, musical, culinary, historical, and even those that other parents and grandparents might have feared: like when I found my mom and aunts’ stash of Barbie dolls from the 60s and begged my grandmother to take me shopping to buy them new outfits. Frances’ demeanor bore no trace of shame as she marched me through Bill’s Dollar Store on a hunt for doll clothes for her grandson, though I don’t think she was pleased by how scandalously tight 1980s Barbie’s clothes fit on 1960s Barbie’s figure. My sense of good taste eventually prevailed; we switched Barbie back to her Jackie Kennedy-inspired houndstooth suit and pillbox hat after not long.
As I grew into an adult, my relationship with my father actually improved. Though I still feared him enough to hide my sexual orientation from him — years of seeing him mock the voice and mannerisms of the stereotypical homosexual made me certain that was a non-starter — we began to get along on an intellectual level. It kept improving until a week after Christmas of 2005, the day my mom called me at work in Baltimore to tell me that the FBI had broken down the door of our family home in Alabama to arrest my father for distributing child pornography. A lifetime of bad memories and a decades-old sense of unease came crashing back that day, and I haven’t seen my dad since.
It’s a terrible thing to have to recognize your father as a Bad Person. It’s worse to have to recognize the traits you share with him. My father was abused as a child, and I understand that the way he treated me was a continuation of that cycle1. I’m not sure exactly why, but the way that family history has manifested itself in my life is not by being abusive toward others, but to myself. I can’t deny that I’m carrying both the metaphorical and the literal weight of an unhealthy childhood and young adulthood with me even now, but today at 33, I’m happier and healthier than I’ve ever been in my life. And I know that history doesn’t define my future. As long as I can remember, I’ve felt more like a member of my mother’s family than my father’s, and I choose to embrace the good I see in myself, the traits for which I give them credit.
My great-grandfather Anton “John” Miklič came to the United States from a tiny village called Stari Kot (current population: 11) in what was Austria-Hungary at the time, now Slovenia. At Ellis Island his name changed from Miklič (pronounced Mick-litch) to Miklic (Mick-lick). He came to establish a new home and start a family, but was called back to Austria to fight in World War I. He went (a trait I can’t say I’d share with him) and then returned to Alabama after the war. It was there that he met my great-grandmother, also from Slovenia, a widow with five children of her own. They married and had five more: Margaret, Rose, Josephine, Johnny, and my grandmother, Frances — yes, our family is Catholic. My great-grandmother died when Frances was a young girl, and John supported the family of 11 on his own.
Robert “Joe” Martin, my grandfather, went to Europe to fight for the U.S. in World War II. During the war, Stari Kot was burned to the ground by Italian soldiers and all its residents were sent to a concentration camp. Marija Miklič, Frances’ grandmother and my great-great-grandmother, died during the march to the camp. After the war, Joe and Frances married and had seven children, including my mom Mary, named for Marija. The American Miklics thrived and grew by the dozens, though along the way, the name continued to decline since most of John’s children were girls. Today the last remaining Miklic is my great-uncle Johnny’s wife, our much-loved nonagenarian Aunt Lou.
And now me. Not legally yet, but that will come eventually. Thomas is a fine name, and I’ll always remember my late uncle and grandmother Thomas fondly. But your family determines your name at birth, it doesn’t decide it for life. I have always felt more like a Miklic, so a Miklic I shall be.
A note: while I’ve vacillated on this decision for years, I was inspired by some of my Automattic colleagues in gathering the courage to finally make the switch. I believe Automattic (and Automattic alumni) have a far-higher incidence of name changes for non-traditional reasons, perhaps owing to our independent nature. So my thanks goes to those of you who provided the example to me, who convinced me it wasn’t really a crazy thing to do; you guys know who you are. And to everyone who’s offered your encouragement and support, I thank you sincerely. As I start a semi-new life in a new home later this year, it feels great to accompany it with a semi-new name.
Alex Trebek said the name of the thing I make. My life, it is complete.
Around this time of year, I need to remind myself that winter doesn’t last forever. These scenes are from the garden at my mother’s house, planted by its original owner, Wayne de la Rua — Baldwin county’s first Master Gardener. Much of it was destroyed by Hurricane Ivan, but I’m happy that we captured a few pieces of it in photos.