When
I was a child every time I found myself subjected to yet another strange group
of children the question always asked, once the perpetually popular “Where do
you go to church?” had made the rounds, was “Who’s your father?” Now, I could
probably spend five pages going on about the fact that almost no-one ever cared
to ask who my mother was and why that’s significant, but since last weekend was
Father’s Day, I’ll refrain. I always had a lot of trouble with this question
because my answer was, “I don’t have one.” Obviously, I didn’t mean in the
literal sense—though being an Athena-eqsue creature would have been rather
cool—but the strange group of children tended to react as though I did. I’m not
sure if they were all just that stupid or if they were intrigued thought
incredulity would drag the Great Secret out of me.
Now that I think about it, I should have responded with something like: “Well, my father is actually Elvis. My mom found him wandering around in the desert mumbling about aliens, and he’s been living in our spare room ever since.”
Now, I understand I should have responded with at least my father’s name; it didn’t matter if I hadn’t seen him in years. If not, I was supposed to respond with my stepfather’s name, but really, I didn’t see any reason to do that. In my strange as all hell little child mind, that would have been lying, and if there’s one thing I really, really fucking hated as a child, it was lying. Strange, considering what an art the adults in my life made of it. Anyway, he wasn’t my father, and we all knew it. Depending on how old I was, he didn’t even like me that much, if at all, so why go around handing out fake titles? But I didn’t know how to articulate that at eight, so it became another entry on the list of reasons why I was socially isolated.
Anyway, I realized by saying, “I don’t have one”, I was also implying, “And I don’t need one.” To be honest, it never occurred to me that I might, or that some people end up spending their entire lives freaking out because their dads didn’t pay enough attention to them. I’m sure the same is true for mothers, but let’s be honest, no-one goes around talking about Mommy Issues with the same ease as they do Daddy Issues. I’m sure living in a patriarchal culture has absolutely nothing to do with that.
I realize I’m not going to help fight my reputation as cold and unfeeling by saying I didn’t feel a loss when my father stopped making the effort to occasionally show up and see me, but I really didn’t. The man was fucking crazy, and if I didn’t want to end up writing Dorothy Allison’s next book for her, I’d tell you about it. There were a few times when I got older, after he resurfaced and them disappeared again twice, when I wondered, “Is it me?”
That didn’t last long though. Why?
Because fuck him, that’s why.
Anyhow, I decided to commemorate the most recent round of, “What do you mean you don’t talk to your dad? Doesn’t that make you sad?” with a story. Dear readers, it’s time for My Trip to Michigan, or, as I prefer to call it, The Time I Almost Got Kidnapped.
It was the summer of 1994. My first sister had been born in January. I had just finished enduring my first round of hellish torture—known to some people as my first year of kindergarten. Yes, I spent two years in kindergarten. Why? Because the educational system fucks over introverts Who. Just. Want. To. Read.
I was really looking forward to summer, which is funny because after age 12 I never looked forward to summer again and hoped the school year would be extended at the last minute. At that point though, all I cared about was getting away from the other children, watching Daytime T.V., going on midnight junk food runs, and trips to the library with my mom, who, unlike my teacher, let me get whatever the hell I wanted and believed me when I said I could read it. When my father showed up talking about a trip to Michigan to spend some time with his family I don’t remember caring that much. He said there would be swimming though, and well, that excited me.
Given my father’s overall irresponsibility and, shall we say, unpredictability, my going hinged on one of his other children going. Mandy, my older sister who no longer speaks to me, was deemed competent enough to make sure I didn’t die or get left anywhere. So, we set off.
Along the way I drove my father crazy with my refusal to eat at Burger King. See, I had recently watched a show about Mad Cow disease and immediately responded by freaking the fuck out and trying to throw up the meatloaf I ate the day before. My mom and one of her friends calmed me down by telling me only beef from Australia could kill me, and the only place in America with such lethal meat was Burger King. Our town didn’t have one, and that was enough to temporarily reassure me. My father, of course, knew nothing about this incident, but he responded to my fear with complete maturity and intelligence by explaining to me that I had the option of eating chicken or even of just eating fries. Or, you know, by not insisting we eat at fucking Burger King.
Except he did none of those things, and in a rare moment of caring from Mandy, she added to my mom’s lie by telling me all the contaminated cows had been shot.
Seriously.
Once in Michigan things actually went well at first. My paternal grandfather responded to me with the same level of disinterest and suspicion as I responded to him. The other relatives didn’t seem to notice I was there. The promised swimming wasn’t as much fun as I thought it would be, thanks to the fact that we were out on a lake, in a boat, and the smallest life jacket was still three sizes too big for me so I always felt like I was either about to drown or be strangled by the thing. Mandy introduced me to 90s MTV, which wasn’t that exciting. I spent a few days watching Beavis and Butthead with her, but I never really understood the appeal. If only Daria had existed or a Nirvana video had come on so my life could have changed. Considering it was the summer of 1994, I’m actually a little surprised I never saw a Nirvana video.
I’m digressing.
My father had a lot of friends in Michigan, and by friends I mean drug acquaintances. I doubt he’s ever had anything else. One set of acquaintances had two hellbeasts for children. I spent the duration of our visits to their house trying to avoid them and being bullied when I failed to do so. That’s not to say this should be read with an, “Aww, poor thing” attitude because until I was about seven and all my confidence started to get sucked out, I wasn’t daunted by bullies, no matter what size they came in. With a strong, “Oh yeah? Well, fuck you!” I’d rush at them, fist raised, ready to kick ass. Once the fray was over, I’d settle back into a corner and read, which is all I really wanted to do in the first place. And no, I didn’t know what the word “fuck” meant at that age. I got a lot of my vocabulary from context clues as a child, and that seemed like the strongest angry retort.
One night near the end of the trip, my father found out he had to go “pick up some stuff” right after we arrived at another acquaintance’s house. There were three adults and about a dozen unwashed children running around shrieking like hellbeasts, so I got the privilege of staying with some strange adults in one of the dirtiest places I’ve ever been had the misfortune of entering. I still don’t know what the hell happened. It could have been as simple as he got high and forgot or maybe there was some epic Gangland-style action that kept him busy, but whatever it was, my father didn’t show back up until the next morning.
I won’t say I didn’t freak out a little when the third hour struck and I was still in that hellhole, but by hour five I’d found a less-filthy corner and my fear settled into resignation. I was hungry, but I’d be damned if I asked those people for food. It was around ten at night, so I was getting tired, but again, I’d be damned if I fell asleep in that place. I’d finished my book, so I tentatively went in search of another one.
I didn’t find one. I did find a very sweet cat, though.
The day before we were supposed to go home, something happened to my father’s car. I still don’t know what, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that story was a lie. Leaving on schedule became impossible. It would be three or four days before we could head back. My sister took this pretty well; she went inside and turned on MTV.
I, however, did not.
When my mom called that night I told her what had happened. Her voice got really calm, in a way that usually signified she was about to jump into a moving car through the window or attack someone with a metal ruler. She asked to speak to me father. Knowing I had made some sort of mistake, I found him and handed over the phone.
The news that my father would be willing to run off into the woods with me to keep my mom from getting me back was not exactly something I wanted to hear. As her assurances that she would indeed be there by tomorrow grew more vehement, so did his that neither of us would be there.
I went into the other room, put my books in a bag, and changed into day clothes. There was $1 in quarters in my bag and a payphone two blocks away. As much as I trusted my mom, there was someone I trusted a little more, especially when it came to being dependable.
If necessary, I was prepared to call my grandfather.
Now that I think about it, I should have responded with something like: “Well, my father is actually Elvis. My mom found him wandering around in the desert mumbling about aliens, and he’s been living in our spare room ever since.”
Now, I understand I should have responded with at least my father’s name; it didn’t matter if I hadn’t seen him in years. If not, I was supposed to respond with my stepfather’s name, but really, I didn’t see any reason to do that. In my strange as all hell little child mind, that would have been lying, and if there’s one thing I really, really fucking hated as a child, it was lying. Strange, considering what an art the adults in my life made of it. Anyway, he wasn’t my father, and we all knew it. Depending on how old I was, he didn’t even like me that much, if at all, so why go around handing out fake titles? But I didn’t know how to articulate that at eight, so it became another entry on the list of reasons why I was socially isolated.
Anyway, I realized by saying, “I don’t have one”, I was also implying, “And I don’t need one.” To be honest, it never occurred to me that I might, or that some people end up spending their entire lives freaking out because their dads didn’t pay enough attention to them. I’m sure the same is true for mothers, but let’s be honest, no-one goes around talking about Mommy Issues with the same ease as they do Daddy Issues. I’m sure living in a patriarchal culture has absolutely nothing to do with that.
I realize I’m not going to help fight my reputation as cold and unfeeling by saying I didn’t feel a loss when my father stopped making the effort to occasionally show up and see me, but I really didn’t. The man was fucking crazy, and if I didn’t want to end up writing Dorothy Allison’s next book for her, I’d tell you about it. There were a few times when I got older, after he resurfaced and them disappeared again twice, when I wondered, “Is it me?”
That didn’t last long though. Why?
Because fuck him, that’s why.
Anyhow, I decided to commemorate the most recent round of, “What do you mean you don’t talk to your dad? Doesn’t that make you sad?” with a story. Dear readers, it’s time for My Trip to Michigan, or, as I prefer to call it, The Time I Almost Got Kidnapped.
It was the summer of 1994. My first sister had been born in January. I had just finished enduring my first round of hellish torture—known to some people as my first year of kindergarten. Yes, I spent two years in kindergarten. Why? Because the educational system fucks over introverts Who. Just. Want. To. Read.
I was really looking forward to summer, which is funny because after age 12 I never looked forward to summer again and hoped the school year would be extended at the last minute. At that point though, all I cared about was getting away from the other children, watching Daytime T.V., going on midnight junk food runs, and trips to the library with my mom, who, unlike my teacher, let me get whatever the hell I wanted and believed me when I said I could read it. When my father showed up talking about a trip to Michigan to spend some time with his family I don’t remember caring that much. He said there would be swimming though, and well, that excited me.
Given my father’s overall irresponsibility and, shall we say, unpredictability, my going hinged on one of his other children going. Mandy, my older sister who no longer speaks to me, was deemed competent enough to make sure I didn’t die or get left anywhere. So, we set off.
Along the way I drove my father crazy with my refusal to eat at Burger King. See, I had recently watched a show about Mad Cow disease and immediately responded by freaking the fuck out and trying to throw up the meatloaf I ate the day before. My mom and one of her friends calmed me down by telling me only beef from Australia could kill me, and the only place in America with such lethal meat was Burger King. Our town didn’t have one, and that was enough to temporarily reassure me. My father, of course, knew nothing about this incident, but he responded to my fear with complete maturity and intelligence by explaining to me that I had the option of eating chicken or even of just eating fries. Or, you know, by not insisting we eat at fucking Burger King.
Except he did none of those things, and in a rare moment of caring from Mandy, she added to my mom’s lie by telling me all the contaminated cows had been shot.
Seriously.
Once in Michigan things actually went well at first. My paternal grandfather responded to me with the same level of disinterest and suspicion as I responded to him. The other relatives didn’t seem to notice I was there. The promised swimming wasn’t as much fun as I thought it would be, thanks to the fact that we were out on a lake, in a boat, and the smallest life jacket was still three sizes too big for me so I always felt like I was either about to drown or be strangled by the thing. Mandy introduced me to 90s MTV, which wasn’t that exciting. I spent a few days watching Beavis and Butthead with her, but I never really understood the appeal. If only Daria had existed or a Nirvana video had come on so my life could have changed. Considering it was the summer of 1994, I’m actually a little surprised I never saw a Nirvana video.
I’m digressing.
My father had a lot of friends in Michigan, and by friends I mean drug acquaintances. I doubt he’s ever had anything else. One set of acquaintances had two hellbeasts for children. I spent the duration of our visits to their house trying to avoid them and being bullied when I failed to do so. That’s not to say this should be read with an, “Aww, poor thing” attitude because until I was about seven and all my confidence started to get sucked out, I wasn’t daunted by bullies, no matter what size they came in. With a strong, “Oh yeah? Well, fuck you!” I’d rush at them, fist raised, ready to kick ass. Once the fray was over, I’d settle back into a corner and read, which is all I really wanted to do in the first place. And no, I didn’t know what the word “fuck” meant at that age. I got a lot of my vocabulary from context clues as a child, and that seemed like the strongest angry retort.
One night near the end of the trip, my father found out he had to go “pick up some stuff” right after we arrived at another acquaintance’s house. There were three adults and about a dozen unwashed children running around shrieking like hellbeasts, so I got the privilege of staying with some strange adults in one of the dirtiest places I’ve ever been had the misfortune of entering. I still don’t know what the hell happened. It could have been as simple as he got high and forgot or maybe there was some epic Gangland-style action that kept him busy, but whatever it was, my father didn’t show back up until the next morning.
I won’t say I didn’t freak out a little when the third hour struck and I was still in that hellhole, but by hour five I’d found a less-filthy corner and my fear settled into resignation. I was hungry, but I’d be damned if I asked those people for food. It was around ten at night, so I was getting tired, but again, I’d be damned if I fell asleep in that place. I’d finished my book, so I tentatively went in search of another one.
I didn’t find one. I did find a very sweet cat, though.
The day before we were supposed to go home, something happened to my father’s car. I still don’t know what, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that story was a lie. Leaving on schedule became impossible. It would be three or four days before we could head back. My sister took this pretty well; she went inside and turned on MTV.
I, however, did not.
When my mom called that night I told her what had happened. Her voice got really calm, in a way that usually signified she was about to jump into a moving car through the window or attack someone with a metal ruler. She asked to speak to me father. Knowing I had made some sort of mistake, I found him and handed over the phone.
The news that my father would be willing to run off into the woods with me to keep my mom from getting me back was not exactly something I wanted to hear. As her assurances that she would indeed be there by tomorrow grew more vehement, so did his that neither of us would be there.
I went into the other room, put my books in a bag, and changed into day clothes. There was $1 in quarters in my bag and a payphone two blocks away. As much as I trusted my mom, there was someone I trusted a little more, especially when it came to being dependable.
If necessary, I was prepared to call my grandfather.
It
didn’t come to that. I’m a bit curious about what would have happened if it
had. I found out years later there was a small army of quasi-hippies counting
out gas money and searching for a map even before my mom hung up the phone. So,
I guess that means I was pretty important to these people.
Or
maybe they all just wanted to go on a road trip.
Rachel -- you have lived life. Like, really LIVED. And you are one hell of a writer. I quite admire you.
ReplyDeleteReally? Thank you. That means a lot.
ReplyDeleteI imagine your grandfather would have been a part of the small army of hippies. Now I have this image of your grandfather - armed, in my mind's eye - and the hippies scouring the Michigan forests for your father. Whether he was shot or simply invited to partake in some funny brownies was completely in the hands of fate. (Wow, serious tense trouble there.)
ReplyDeleteAnywho, those are odd questions you were asked as a child. In my experience, kindergartners usually stuck with "What's your name?", "Hey, do you want to play?" , and occasionally "Where does your family come from?" since it wasn't a given everyone was born in the states.
Actually, my grandfather is quite anti-hippie. When I got into Nirvana he scowled at a picture of Kurt Cobain and said I'd better not start dating "long haired hippies." It's a little ironic, given my dating preferences.
ReplyDeleteI think it was environmental. It's such a small place, and just about everyone is related somehow. There was a lot of emphasis on discovering even the thinnest connections even when we were really young, so that's probably part of it.