The first time I felt what I could identify as shame, where I felt on display to disadvantage happened at the opening of a Dale Chiluly exhibit at the major art museum in Dallas. A beautiful gathering in a light-splashed, sleek space filled with beautiful people murmuring appropriate words of beauty about clean, well-turned pieces.
And then, me.
Dad had actually made it by to pick me up for a weekend (of sorts). Less than an hour before, I'd been a kid, running around in a sweatshirt and culottes. My hair carefully braided by my mom's nimble fingers that morning sticking amok, sweaty, unraveling.
Then, he was there. Mom asked if I could shower and change, said I wasn't fit for something fancy as I was. Dad got cold and angry. I was in the car as soon as I could move so they only yelled, so we wouldn't need help cleaning up the aftermath. The sweat from my sweatshirt seeped into his fine leather seats, but he chirped debonairly as he wove his car through the steel maze of downtown.
And we were there.
Thirsty and looking for something to do with my hands, I moved towards a pretty blonde girl near a table with cheese and fruit. She had a braid like me, a red-and-white dress, and she looked like my friend Tabby. I smiled, quick and unsure.
Her eyes went flat and she moved away. I wasn't fit company.
I wondered if I had tracked all the dust of my life behind me like Pig Pen. Tucking behind a nearby pillar, I sipped something liquid and cold. My cheeks burned, I knew I smelled. My clothes were torn, my sneakers permanently scarring the pretty white floor.
Turning my head, I looked for my dad and found him smoothly sipping something bubbly, his eyes roaming a tall, tastefully black-clad blonde. Feeling me look at him, he sighed, his shoulders subtly hunched and cheeks colored.
I'd embarrassed him.
I leaned back behind the pillar, rolling my eyes. Two choices loomed: I could not move from that spot. The floor could eat me, the pillar could suck me into cool stone nothingness.
Or I could walk away from him.
I put my cup on the table and walked, keeping the pillar between us. Inside the room, color burst, lush like oceans. Things made of glass slithered and uncurled tentacles above my head, like giant, welcoming jelly fish. Some pieces just sat, splashing puddles of color on me as light shone through them.
My company didn't matter. I fit.
Roaming the rooms felt like entering undiscovered worlds, and I still don't know how long I wandered. I fell into hope and color and beauty so sharp it felt keen on my eyes. I was free.
Sometime later, my dad found me. His eyes glacially furious, a white line around his lips. It seems the blonde had seen me, asked if I was his. When he shared I was my mother's child, but had gone to find me, he was shocked and saddened to not find me where I'd been.
I embarrassed you, I remember saying, so there was no reason for me to stay.
It was a quiet ride home in the cooling night. Stars winked like lights along the edges of the glass I'd just seen. I dreamed of swirls of color teasing the stars, clouds hugging the moon like family.
He returned me to my mom's, and drove off with a punch of gas.
A few years later, he met and fell in love with a fabulous tall, slender woman. The day of the wedding, he asked if I was planning to attend. My brother was with me for the weekend, so I said I'd have to bring him if I came.
Dad didn't understand why I should have that need. I said I didn't see why, if he couldn't admit he had two children, he should need to have any. It was the last time we spoke.
I found out about his death from my cousin on Facebook.
While I read a book about the fatherlessness epidemic in America, my angry father rode his motorcycle into a long, good night.
At his funeral, I couldn't reach his wife's side to offer my condolences for her pain. My thoughts slid cool in my head, as I tried to classify the absolute lack of feeling. Not tasting of shock or bitter-copper like pain, it wasn't something easily named. No color burned hot like regret or clingish grey-green like unrequited hope.
I felt clean, like stars and lights along the edges of the glass. I mourned the passing of a hurt man so angry, life passed him while he was shamefully distracted.
And then, me.
Dad had actually made it by to pick me up for a weekend (of sorts). Less than an hour before, I'd been a kid, running around in a sweatshirt and culottes. My hair carefully braided by my mom's nimble fingers that morning sticking amok, sweaty, unraveling.
Then, he was there. Mom asked if I could shower and change, said I wasn't fit for something fancy as I was. Dad got cold and angry. I was in the car as soon as I could move so they only yelled, so we wouldn't need help cleaning up the aftermath. The sweat from my sweatshirt seeped into his fine leather seats, but he chirped debonairly as he wove his car through the steel maze of downtown.
And we were there.
Thirsty and looking for something to do with my hands, I moved towards a pretty blonde girl near a table with cheese and fruit. She had a braid like me, a red-and-white dress, and she looked like my friend Tabby. I smiled, quick and unsure.
Her eyes went flat and she moved away. I wasn't fit company.
I wondered if I had tracked all the dust of my life behind me like Pig Pen. Tucking behind a nearby pillar, I sipped something liquid and cold. My cheeks burned, I knew I smelled. My clothes were torn, my sneakers permanently scarring the pretty white floor.
Turning my head, I looked for my dad and found him smoothly sipping something bubbly, his eyes roaming a tall, tastefully black-clad blonde. Feeling me look at him, he sighed, his shoulders subtly hunched and cheeks colored.
I'd embarrassed him.
I leaned back behind the pillar, rolling my eyes. Two choices loomed: I could not move from that spot. The floor could eat me, the pillar could suck me into cool stone nothingness.
Or I could walk away from him.
I put my cup on the table and walked, keeping the pillar between us. Inside the room, color burst, lush like oceans. Things made of glass slithered and uncurled tentacles above my head, like giant, welcoming jelly fish. Some pieces just sat, splashing puddles of color on me as light shone through them.
My company didn't matter. I fit.
Roaming the rooms felt like entering undiscovered worlds, and I still don't know how long I wandered. I fell into hope and color and beauty so sharp it felt keen on my eyes. I was free.
Sometime later, my dad found me. His eyes glacially furious, a white line around his lips. It seems the blonde had seen me, asked if I was his. When he shared I was my mother's child, but had gone to find me, he was shocked and saddened to not find me where I'd been.
I embarrassed you, I remember saying, so there was no reason for me to stay.
It was a quiet ride home in the cooling night. Stars winked like lights along the edges of the glass I'd just seen. I dreamed of swirls of color teasing the stars, clouds hugging the moon like family.
He returned me to my mom's, and drove off with a punch of gas.
A few years later, he met and fell in love with a fabulous tall, slender woman. The day of the wedding, he asked if I was planning to attend. My brother was with me for the weekend, so I said I'd have to bring him if I came.
Dad didn't understand why I should have that need. I said I didn't see why, if he couldn't admit he had two children, he should need to have any. It was the last time we spoke.
I found out about his death from my cousin on Facebook.
While I read a book about the fatherlessness epidemic in America, my angry father rode his motorcycle into a long, good night.
At his funeral, I couldn't reach his wife's side to offer my condolences for her pain. My thoughts slid cool in my head, as I tried to classify the absolute lack of feeling. Not tasting of shock or bitter-copper like pain, it wasn't something easily named. No color burned hot like regret or clingish grey-green like unrequited hope.
I felt clean, like stars and lights along the edges of the glass. I mourned the passing of a hurt man so angry, life passed him while he was shamefully distracted.
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