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For Some Reason
When I was three years old, I sneezed into my father's vanilla soft serve cone.
I remember because my mother and he argued about it for an hour afterwards. He didn't want to buy another ice cream cone, she wanted him to get one.
I'm not sure why I remember it so well otherwise. Or at all. It wasn't their only fight by far.
They used to argue for hours after my brother and I went to bed. I offered each of them (on separate occasions) my toy whip in case it turned violent one night. I'm sure it upset them more than their fighting upset me back then. I also overheard their half-hearted laugh when one told the other about the whip. They got a divorce shortly thereafter.
I don't remember if that was the fight that made them finally end it. I don't remember my father getting on his knees in the front yard and crying for my mother not to leave him the way she insisted he did years later when she was angry at him either. I remember sitting in the back seat of my grandmother's car and eating my uncle's extra large bag of animal crackers though -- this was back when the animals on the bag were still in cages, of course. I remember not seeing my father for a long time after that (long enough that I never went back to the house we'd lived in). Other things too.
I remember a lot of things my father told me. "If you ever mess around with a ni__er, that's the day you stop calling me Daddy." "You ain't getting funny (gay) on me, [are you,] son?!" "Everyone thinks your cousin is gay and I don't want that for you." "I think your momma has a girlfriend; gay bitch."
I remember putting my mother's clothing on; I was three years old and she thought I was asleep like my brother, so she went out with my father (some errand). I remember not knowing how a bra worked and not knowing how gross it was to wear my mother's -- I wore my brother's hand-me-downs after all -- but wanting to wear it and wanting to wear girl clothes more than my own or my brothers. I remember looking out at the inky night sky and our empty yard through her bedroom window, dressed entirely in her clothes as they fell off of me, and wanting the world to see me in them for some reason (thank god no one did). Some time, two or three years later, I put two plastic balls under my shirt like breasts and cried when my mother laughed at me but couldn't explain why. I didn't understand why I kissed a boy at my bus stop in kindergarten or the bullying I saw throughout elementary school after. Fifteen years later, a month or so after my father died, I looked like a girl after shaving my beard and didn't understand why I loved staring at the selfies I took that day.
I remember because my mother and he argued about it for an hour afterwards. He didn't want to buy another ice cream cone, she wanted him to get one.
I'm not sure why I remember it so well otherwise. Or at all. It wasn't their only fight by far.
They used to argue for hours after my brother and I went to bed. I offered each of them (on separate occasions) my toy whip in case it turned violent one night. I'm sure it upset them more than their fighting upset me back then. I also overheard their half-hearted laugh when one told the other about the whip. They got a divorce shortly thereafter.
I don't remember if that was the fight that made them finally end it. I don't remember my father getting on his knees in the front yard and crying for my mother not to leave him the way she insisted he did years later when she was angry at him either. I remember sitting in the back seat of my grandmother's car and eating my uncle's extra large bag of animal crackers though -- this was back when the animals on the bag were still in cages, of course. I remember not seeing my father for a long time after that (long enough that I never went back to the house we'd lived in). Other things too.
I remember a lot of things my father told me. "If you ever mess around with a ni__er, that's the day you stop calling me Daddy." "You ain't getting funny (gay) on me, [are you,] son?!" "Everyone thinks your cousin is gay and I don't want that for you." "I think your momma has a girlfriend; gay bitch."
I remember putting my mother's clothing on; I was three years old and she thought I was asleep like my brother, so she went out with my father (some errand). I remember not knowing how a bra worked and not knowing how gross it was to wear my mother's -- I wore my brother's hand-me-downs after all -- but wanting to wear it and wanting to wear girl clothes more than my own or my brothers. I remember looking out at the inky night sky and our empty yard through her bedroom window, dressed entirely in her clothes as they fell off of me, and wanting the world to see me in them for some reason (thank god no one did). Some time, two or three years later, I put two plastic balls under my shirt like breasts and cried when my mother laughed at me but couldn't explain why. I didn't understand why I kissed a boy at my bus stop in kindergarten or the bullying I saw throughout elementary school after. Fifteen years later, a month or so after my father died, I looked like a girl after shaving my beard and didn't understand why I loved staring at the selfies I took that day.
