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Okay, so you made it to the bio page; good. I know that if you are taking the time to read this that you have probably already seen the photo gallery and stats pages, and your interest is a little peaked; good.
Here you'll learn all the little tid-bits about me, my origins, and how I came to be the person I am today. I feel that personality is two parts breeding and one part bred. We all are shaped by events and our environment. They help make us who were are today, and shape who we will be tomorrow.
There is a reason that we are created from earth; clay is very easy to mold, and we as
human beings are constantly molded by those who touch us in our everyday lives.
The date on which I was born was April 4, 1972. I was the third child to be born in my family, and the only boy. I was also the easiest birth of the three. My mother describes the morning of my birth very succinctly, "I woke up, put my feet on the floor, and whoosh, away I went. My sisters describe me as one of the longest babies that they have ever seen, "We expected ma to come home with this cute little baby, and you were [23"] big!" I have been told that I was a very complacent baby as well, never very cranky or colicy. At one point in my early life my mother brought me to our pediatrician with the concern that I wasn't gaining any weight. The doctor asked about my habits and then replied, "It's not that he's not eating; he's just always sleeping."
The in a small town on the south shore of Massachusetts, and was once the overnight spot for people traveling between Plymouth and Boston. If you have ever seen the movies The Witches of Eastwick or Housesitter, you have seen the area where I live; literally. Both of those movies were filmed in the area surrounding my town. The shop where Cher sells her little Bubbie dolls is where I used to buy earring materials. Her character's (Alex) house really does exist as does the church where Jack Nicholson made his "women" speach after being feathered and blown. The hardware store where Goldie Hawn buys all of her kitchenware is where I used to by my garden seeds and lawn tools. It really is a beautiful area, picturesque and has to be seen in person to really be believed. In fact Warner Brothers was so concerned that the town looked to much like a movie set, that they filmed additional establishing shots for the movie so people would believe that it was a real town.
The population of my town was about 25,000 people, which is a fairly large town, but small enough so that the people really get to know you. This can be both a good and bad thing.
Hingham is situated right on the coast, and when I say on the coast I mean on the coast. The part of town that I lived in is a peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water. I live about five minutes away from the beach. There was our street, Howe Street, Jarvis, and then, the Atlantic Ocean.
One of the things that frustrates me more than anything now is that I don't live anywhere near the coast, and what is more frustrating than that is when someone says, "But [Virginia Beach, Ocean City, Rehobith...] is only [2,3,4] hours away." I just want to slap people who say that. Where I lived in New England if you drove 4 hours you'd be in Canada. Those of you who live on the coast can certainly empathize with me, and those who don't, living on the coast is something that everyone should experience at some point in their life. Just imagine waking up by the beach every day of your life, and being lulled to sleep by the distant clang of a bouy or honk of a foghorn. The salty sweet smell of the air year round. Ahhh!
The area that I grew up in is a beauty without comparison. And that is my biased opinion. I was shaped by the sea in the same way that it has shaped the rocks and cliffs that surrounded me for 22 years of my life. I am a part of that land. I was once told that when a heart is sad for a place, it is because part of the heart still remains there. And the part of the heart that remains is replaced by a piece of the land that was so loved, so that the person will can carry it with them wherever they go, and to never forget the land that meant so much to them.
Of course, physical environment isn't the only thing that shapes us. Our interpersonal and emotional environment shapes the landscape of our souls as well.
My "family" encompasses many people who are not related to me directly by blood, but who are connected by something stronger, originating from the same place, that is the heart; that is love.
My "aunt" Nancy had two sons of her own, John and Jason. John is two years younger than I, and Jason is six years younger. The three of us grew up together like brothers, and even today I refer to them as my cousins when I talk about them to other people. Every day after school John and Jason would go next door to Nanna's, and we would play (depending on the season) baseball, football, soccer, basketball, hockey and any number of games that we would make up.
Ghostbusters was one of them. This was a game that involved sitting on the steps of Nanna's house at night, and waiting for a car to come up the street. When a car was spotted, all players would run to tag the fence separating her yard and the neighbors yard. After the car passed, all players would run back to the steps, and wait for the next car. If you didn't have the sprinting strength to make it to the fence or if another car passed by in the process of going from the steps to the fence, all players who were not "safe" had to dive down in the grass until the car passed, and then continue on. The game involved no "outs", no winners or losers, no real object to the game. Even the name, "Ghostbusters" had nothing to do with what we were playing. We were just kids who were caught up in the fun of running, laughing and tumbling in the grass on warm summer nights when we could stay out, almost, as late as we wanted.
There were other members of the family who we hung out with, Mitchy, Tammy, Becky, Marcy, John and Jason's real cousins, Nanna, and Nancy's brothers Mitch, Bobby, and Gary. Gary used to play with us all the time. He was ten years older than I was, and would often bend the rules of the games as being the oldest. But their came a time when I didn't want to be bossed around anymore. After all, I was getting to be a man. I was 13.
It was in February, John, Jason and I were out playing football in Nanna's yard. As happened a lot, Gary came out after he got home from work wanting to join us. Our teams split up, John and I, Jason and Gary, and we played. But this time I decided that I was going to bend some of the rules.
It was on a running play with John. We were close to goal and one touchdown away from being ahead. I decided that John would make it to the end zone, and we would be ahead.
I hiked the ball; Gary counted 5 Mississippi, and came in; John started to run; I blocked Gary from tagging him by grabbing just enough fabric in his jacket so if he went to move I would know, but not enough to call holding. Gary called it anyways.
A debate on the call followed, ending with Gary grabbing my jacket in a "demonstration" of holding.
"You'd better let go." I said
"Why, Pat, you gonna hit me?"
I did.
Now Gary and I had wrestled and roughhoused before when we played whatever we were playing. In fact it became somewhat of a habit. Gary would boss, John or I would get mad, Gary and I would tussle, and that's how we knew the game was over. It was all in good fun, and we enjoyed it as such, but this was something different. I had never punched Gary before, nor had either one of us ever been bruised or bleeding, as Gary was now out of the corner of his mouth.
There was an odd moment where everything stopped, even time and world. No one said a word, but a thousand thoughts rushed through my mind, he'll respect me now, admire me, maybe laugh it off. That look in his eyes; that's...oh, oh, that's royally pissed off.
Gary put my face into that snow so fast and hard that, like some Warner Brothers cartoon character, I saw stars. The cold sting of the ice caked snow didn't register with me at all. My own face was now hot with anger and humiliation of being put down and whaled upon in front of my cousins. I the man, getting the daylights beat out of me.
After a few moments Gary let me up. Then he was yelling at me, and I was yelling at him, John was yelling at both of us, and Jason, well Jason seem to be really enjoying all the fighting. He was standing a bit away from everyone, and had a big smile on his face, as though he were ringside at "Royal Rumble" or something.
Nancy came out, yelling about the yelling. Nanna banned me from the house for the evening. John yelled some more. Nanna yelled at him. My sister, Maryann, came out an yelled at me after discovering what had gone on. It was family dysfunction at its finest.
Gary went into the house to get patched up. For the beatin' he gave me I was alright; it mostly body blows. Although my face was feeling the cold now, and I had a bit of a headache. The next day Gary and I made up. We all continued playing together, but with the stipulation now of no fighting.
Years later, at a family New Years Eve party, I had my video camera that I had gotten that Christmas. John said he'd take a picture of us. I stood next to Gary and we said Happy New Year, waved, etc. Later, watching the tape I could hear John's voice. "That's Gary and Patrick. I know it's hard to recognize them 'cuz their not punching each other."
Another pivotal "man moment" in my life happened in high school. I went to an all boys parochial high school. Any if you ever want to do a study on the male psyche, you don't need to spend a ton of money, or expend a lot of energy on getting input from scientists, sociologists, and psychiatrists, you just need to spend a few hours in a guys high school. That is where you will learn all you need to know about how men interact. I have often made the analogy that an all boys high school is much like a baboon cage. Each male tries to be the dominant one. They do this by performing various acts of aggression to get the other baboons to submit. However, with an all boys high school, the dominant male is an always evolving placement in the school. He acquirers his position, is challenge, gets overthrown or remains dominant.
I was the challenger.
Their was one guy in high school who's nickname was Psycho. It was even stitched onto his letterman jacket, where everyone else has their names. This guy had arms that were about the size that my calves are now. And my arms were about the size of a maple sapling (apparently the advice my pediatrician had given my mother hadn't quite worked out the way it should have). Being such a tall and what's the PC word, lanky, that's it. Well, being the size of a rail, I was often picked on by the bigger guys, but I tried to stand up for myself where I could, and with Psycho, this would be one of those times.
I was standing at my locker, getting ready for the next class, when Psycho gave me a shove from the back, bumping my head against the back of the locker. He gave me a snide look as he walked back to his locker down the hall.
Well, I don't take too kindly to that kind of bulling. Name calling is one thing, but when it starts to get physical, then I draw a line, and I was hoping that I could force him into crossing it.
I collected my books and walked over to my friend Dennis to talk with him a bit. Psycho was socializing at his locker with someone else. As he slammed his locker shut, shouted, "Huntah's a geek.", and turned and started walking down the hall.
A geek, huh? I thought. I'll just one up him from that. "Oh ya," I said my voice booming down the hall. "well, you're a p----!"
Psycho stopped, turned slowly, handed his books to his friend, and started walking down the hall toward me.
Run, run, run! That's what my instinct was telling me, but my mind knew that if I did run I wouldn't be just running form this one situation. I would be running from every situation with Psycho from here on out, and with any of his buddies. They would know that when it came down to it Patrick Hunter would run off like a scared kitten, rather than fight like a tiger. Besides, Psycho was a whole head shorter than me. When it came down to it, I'd might lose, but I could at least take him on for a little bit.
"I don't want to be involved." His friend said, setting Psycho's books on the floor, and then joining the safety of the ever encroaching circle around me and Psycho.
He came right up to me; nose to nose.
Let him make the first move. I thought. Let him swing first.
Psycho's eyes narrowed. "I don't even know what to do."
He picked up his books and walked away.
He walked away. I though. I felt the rush of relief and the triumph of will. I made Psycho back down. He backed down from me. If standing up against one bully works, then...hmm.
This thought was later to come back to haunt me, as I didn't foresee that when I pushed
back, the bullies could also push back as well. Got myself a black eye and a big fat lip from that
lesson.
Fitchburg State College was another experience for me. Here I studied film. I had always enjoyed film. There was something I found very attractive and intriguing about the way things were shot, lit, acted, scripted. It was such a passion for me. And I remember the being in my first class at FSC, and thinking this feels so right.
If there is anyone who is reading this right now, and is looking for a excellent school for film and video, especially in New England, FSC is the way to go. Bag Emmerson, and Boston University, and I don't care if that is where Matt Damon and Ben Afleck went. The only thing those schools will get you is some recognition and a lot of debt. Go for the real meat of production, the hands on stuff, in everything, editing, shooting, lighting, budgeting, plus great faculty. (I love you LeAnn and Gunther!)
Anyway, at FSC is where I discovered my love of film, it is also where I discovered myself. I had been to University of Maine, Farmington, but after graduation I felt more lost than I ever had. It took away my soul, and for the last year I there I felt that I was just a body, going through the motions of everyday life, but not really living. Fitchburg State helped me to phoenix out of that state, and to rise from the ashes to begin a new life.
There are some people who are friends from UMaine (Lynn, I miss you. Joanells hi). But most of the others I could take or leave. Even my firsts, though one is still very special to me.
At Fitchburg, I met more people. A whole group that I feel really close to (Andrea you can invade my bubble anytime. Jodi you are still my sound diva!) Pete is one of them. He's my best friend in the whole world. He's Joey to my Chandler, Luke to my Bo, Balki to my Larry (he's even has some heritage from the obscure and distant country, Albania). He is another one of those friends that are beyond the bounds. He's family.
We moved here to Washington, DC together. We both had internships here. It was fun road tripping with him. Both times.
Last March we came down for our interviews. On the way back we stopped in Philly. Pete is a big Rocky fan. He wanted to see the statue and the steps. It seemed as thought it would be a short detour, but wound up being a three hour journey through parts of Philly that looked more like Beirut. Pete did finally get to see the all he wanted to, and we headed back up to Massachusetts. But let me tell you, by hour 13 in the car, even your best friend in the whole world starts to irritate you.
When we moved down, I had decided that we would do it in two days. Staying over in Maryland somewhere. It's a good thing that we did. Crossing the Delaware Bridge after running my truck for six hours straight, hauling all our stuff behind us sure did a number on my engine and transmission. Climbing the hills in Maryland I would watch as the speedometer would drop steadily from 60 mph to 55, to 50, 45...30--slip into second gear, skip into third, back and forth. I seriously thought we were not going to make it. But we did. And were still going.
Pete is dating a real nice girl, Linda. She's getting to be a real good friend to me as well. I've got ASGRA, the local rodeo association. Pete's living in a new place, with a new job. I'm starting a new career, vet receptionist/assistant, and will be moving into my own new place soon.
Film is still my passion, but not my life. I don't want to be consumed by it the way I see it consuming others. I remember on my internship seeing one of the editors working 70 or 80 hours a week. She once commented, "My friends think that I'm a work-o-holic." That's not what I want to be. I have realized that life is big enough, but yet, short enough to include other passions, and I do have some horses, steer riding, drawing, and a new one writing. When I look back at my life from some ripe old age I'll have created something that is much more valuable than a financial portfolio, I'll have created a portfolio full of wonder memories, wonderful places and wonderful people.
My dream once was to be the next Spielberg, Scorcesse, or Tarantino. But my dream now is to be the one Patrick Hunter.
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