six things i don't like

i. capitalization 

one of the biggest struggles of my academic career has been that academic writing requires capitalization. all formal writing, actually, demands and most semi-formal writing implies a strict adherence to the laws of grammar. the laws of grammar however, do not always consider justice as it exists outside the page. 

when i was in high school, i decided i was done writing in capital letters. capitalization alludes to a sense of importance, whether it be the lucky leading first word in a sentence or in more cases, a proper noun. the honor of capitalization tells a proper noun that it is different from the rest. it tells it that it is set apart, special, that it has earned a promotion above all other words. although really, it hasn’t earned anything. that slight raise at the beginning of a proper noun is just defaulted to it, with the implication of esteem. in the real world though, not every proper noun defaults to being a good person, and not every good person defaults to being a good father. 

journaling has always been an escape from my not so good father. all the words i couldn’t say to him, all the suppressed feelings of a hurt child, could be poured out on the patient and ever understanding listener of a notebook, devoid of an opinion and of those annoying squiggly red lines. as i wrote, i developed an increasing anger that the “D” in “Dad” when referring to one’s earthly father assumed equal gravity as the “D” in “Dad” when referring to God the Father. it  made me quite indignant that my perfect, saintly mom, another victim of my dad, was not differentiated from him in any way through the big “M” and “D” in my writing. my writing was a way i could fight back, a weapon in an ongoing battle i was always losing. i decided that in order to fight back, i would stop capitalizing words at all. letters in the mail became all lowercase, and auto-capitalization was turned off. i came to hate seeing the capital “D” in “Dad,” a reminder of an honor not earned, more than i hated that in order to subtly take away its power, i had to go full lowercase across the board. if only to me, justice was served not through just grammatical differentiation, but through the demotion of a letter that gave power and privilege to proper nouns that did not deserve it. 

ii. silence

it is a fall day and i am seven years old, coloring next to my 3 year old brother after coming back from the pumpkin patch. a crisp fall day, a wholesome outing, what seems like a picture perfect family experience. a warm breeze wafts in through the open window as my mommy bustles around the kitchen and my baby brother happily swings his legs as he moves his crayons. thump, thump, thump. his little feet hit the counter where we sit rhythmically, the slightest but steadfast sound that fills the air with evidence of the security of a happy childhood. 

the sounds of a happy childhood are interrupted by a voice that travels up the stairs from the basement and cuts through the air like a knife. it is our father, yelling at my brother to stop kicking the counter, his big rage unequatable to the little feet hitting the wood. startled, my brother stops, and without a word, we go back to our coloring. before he even has time to think about what his three year old self is doing though, his legs start swinging again and the pitter patter of his feet hitting the counter resumes. it is drowned out by feet pounding up the stairs and the dread that overtakes our small bodies. my baby brother's eyes widen, frozen in fear. how dare he make so much noise. how dare he have to be told twice. how dare he ruin a nice day. big feet storm back down the stairs and the room resumes to silence. this time, it stays that way. i fight back tears. 

i fight back tears again during countless car rides during my childhood, in which one disagreeable comment that might not have been disagreeable yesterday or one bad driver who really wasn’t driving that badly sends my father into a state where one peep out of anyone sets him off again into a fit of rage. i spent many rides as a child staring out the window, praying as he angrily swerved the car and my mom cried, begging for him to stop, that we wouldn’t die. i fight back tears as we sit through yet another silent dinner, during which someone’s elbow accidentally bumped a glass and milk spilled across the table. in our house, what seems like an inconsequential mistake turns into a screamed speech about the family motto– mistakes are preventable – and a meal finished in silence. 

i hate silence. when a room is still or a conversation goes quiet, i hear not the content absence of things to say but rather the presence of anger. silence to me has always equaled that trouble is present, that no one dares speak for fear of anger taking over. i cannot stand silence, even when it occurs outside my home, for it elicits that illogical but stomach sickening feeling that something must be wrong, that someone is mad, that if someone does not say something right now that we will all be worse off. i have to fight the temptation constantly to speak first, to create noise where it isn’t needed, because to me the only kind of silence that exists is the awkward kind.

iii. dogs

my little brother was about six when he started to express every child’s dream wish of having a puppy. most children would just jump on the bandwagon, or maybe like my other brother, be merely indifferent to the addition of a pet. for me however, a dog seemed like a death sentence. a dog seemed like just another reason my dad would yell, another creature that would undoubtedly not always do his bidding and thus become subject to his anger. in a house that was already filled with screaming 90% of the time, i did not need the other 10% to be filled because of something that wasn’t even human. 

the dog was bought though, justified by my parents as a tool to help my littlest brother with his “anger issues,” even though the dog was merely a bandage over the wound who was the source of them. as i predicted, the dog did nothing but make my dad more angry. a single bark, as if dogs aren’t supposed to, would elicit a fit of rage far greater than the volume of the bark that incited the incident. a paw on the dinner table was as bad as an accidentally spilled glass of milk, which for a child in my house, normally involved a lecture on not making mistakes that was mostly comprised of screaming and a ruined dinner. the dog was not exempt from the same treatment though. any snatched sock or dish towel was simultaneously the dog and someone else in our house’s fault, since we should obviously be able to track the beast’s every move.

i came quickly to detest the dog. it was typical in our house that a peaceful moment could turn to chaos in an instant, and the dog became just another means we didn’t need into this descent of despair. you can scare a child into submission, but it is harder to do with an animal. though it was not fair to him, when i looked at the dog, i saw not a cute and adorable pet who brought joy into the family or even an innocent creature, but an unnecessary addition to our household that made my life harder than it already was. even other people’s dogs were just a reminder of the havoc i had to go back to eventually. i still do not like our dog, and i don’t think i will ever get a dog of my own. 

iv. clean cars

  i am 10 years old when i cannot fall asleep at night because i accidentally left a hershey kiss in the back pocket of the passenger seat in our family minivan and it melted. i attempted to deal with the situation the best i could when i discovered it, throwing the wrapper and the melted chocolate away and scrubbing furiously at the little stain inside the pocket it left. i could not get the stain out, and i knew that if my dad found it, that little incriminating brown spot, i would be heavily punished. i knew better than to leave food in the car. i knew better than to leave anything in the car, because my dad was a self proclaimed neat freak who probably actually had undiagnosed ocd. family beach days were always slightly tainted for me by the fit my dad threw at the sand in the car, and the annual trip to get our family christmas tree made a little less jolly by his absolute rage at the pine needles that somehow made their way in. now, i was worried sick by that one stain, which felt less like the remains of a hershey kiss and more like the kiss of death, tainting my perfect record as a good kid. miraculously, my dad never noticed it like i feared he would, but every night from that august day on i comforted myself by imagining myself walking down the stairs on christmas morning later that year, him having found the stain and me having gotten in trouble, but it all being over now. the only way to ease my anxiety was imagining a time when surely, dad would be less mad, and surely, good will come at some point.  having a clean car is most definitely not a bad goal, but it was our clean car that gave me anxiety night and night again. 

getting a car of my own was life changing for me, not only because it provided a vessel for the freedom to go far, far away from my dad, but because i was under no pressure to keep it clean. when I moved out at 17 to my grandmother’s house in delaware and started working at the beach when i was not away at college, sand consistently filled my seats and crusted my mats. it drove my dad crazy when i would go back to pennsylvania and he would occasionally take the car out, but i did not care. you want to eat in my car? go for it. you want to leave your trash on the floor? be my guest. sometimes my leniency at car cleanliness might border on filth, but to me that will always be better than an unsettingly pristine vehicle. my messy car is comforting, and i hate when it is clean. i hate anything that reminds me of my dad. i love when i open the back door and it is filled with shoes and bags and books, and when coffee mugs from my daily commute pile up in the center console. i love that i am too far away from my dad for him to get mad about it. i love when sand is on the floor and receipts from getting food with my friends litter the seats. to me, they are the remains of a life well lived and my unclean car shows a life well loved. it is not the empty, spotless, soulless and silent vehicle i grew up in. it is a place where people feel safe enough to be human, to track mud in and leave a french fry behind. it is not a clean car, and that is ok. i hate clean cars. 

v. the intersection of 322 west and phoenixville pike 

i am 16, nearly 17, and the process of learning how to drive has taken me far longer than it should, because i am terrified of getting in the car with my father. on the rare occasions he wants to go practice, i find myself making up excuses, because the acquisition of the mindset of being able to brush off his snide comments and focus well enough to not get yelled at for making a mistake is one that requires a lot of mental preparation and cannot be obtained on a whim. it is a tuesday night in february though, and i have hockey practice. my dad tells me i am going to drive to and from hockey practice. no excuses. 

i get in the car pre practice shaking, but make it there almost without a hitch. my parking job is a little rough, and he expresses annoyance, but no big deal. i try to lose myself in the game and focus on my sport, but the whole time i am worried about the drive home. if only driving was as easy as shooting pucks into nets. it probably should be. when practice is over i tentatively open the driver’s side door and turn the key into the ignition, hands shaking. I gingerly pull out of the parking lot, so my dad doesn't get mad at me for being a reckless driver, but not too gingerly, so my dad doesn’t get mad at me for being a scared driver. all is going fine until we get to the intersection of 322 west and phoenixville pike.  halfway home. almost there. 

for an experienced driver, a four-way intersection with a yielding turning lane is nothing to think twice about. for a 16 year old with only a permit and the commander of fort knox sitting next to her, a four way intersection with a yielding turning lane is something to think about excessively until you have conquered it. we approach the intersection. i am sick to my stomach. you got this. i realize though, that i do not know which lane to get in, and do not know whether i should go or yield if i get in the left one. i think about asking my dad, but quickly decide against it. he will yell at me for being stupid and not knowing, and so far, he hasn’t yelled at me. i would like to keep it that way. we’re here now and the two lanes stare at me like my father’s eyes, already pre disappointed before i have said or done anything. i decide to take a risk and pretend i know what i am doing. it will be fine and i won’t get yelled at. i get into the turning lane and just go for it. it turns out you were supposed to yield in that lane, because an oncoming car nearly hits us and slams their horn. in horror i realize my mistake. i am not horrified at the fact that i almost died though. i am horrified because i know my dad’s anger is going to far exceed the anger of the driver i almost hit. 

i am right. my father immediately starts screaming at me for not yielding, for not knowing what i was doing, for not asking him, even though we both know if i had asked that his reaction would have been the same. he doesn’t stop there though. he starts cursing me out. What the f*** is wrong with you grace?? what has gotten into you lately?? are you on drugs? i knew you were on drugs. how else could you possibly drive so badly? his yelling goes on and on, and everytime i think it will stop, it continues. i am crushed by his accusations. normally, i know how to handle his anger, how to let it wash over me like a big wave coming at me at the beach, knowing that if i just hold my breath and go under and face it instead of trying to run away, that it will be over soon and i will not be knocked over. 

now though, i feel nothing but defeated, drowned in the ocean of his disappointment. my whole life, i had done everything i could to make him proud, to keep him happy with me. the first feeling when receiving an award at school or an A on the test or a compliment from a teacher on my good behavior was never one of self accomplishment, but one of excitement that i could tell my dad something that would make him love me more. i was a good kid. a kid who wasn’t on drugs, but just a sixteen year old girl in the drivers seat who was scared to drive and whose oversized hockey jersey made her look no more intimidating than she actually was and who just wanted to make her dad proud. and in this moment, it seemed that despite my efforts, he never saw them. he didn’t see me. he just saw a failure, a turn made so badly that the reason couldn’t possibly be his scaring his daughter into silence but rather her being on drugs. 

i fight to see the road through my tears the rest of the ride home. when we get there, i lock myself in my room and cry more. i confess to my mom, who normally i try to keep out of my dad and i’s problems, how badly his words hurt me. she talks to him, and he talks to me. he tells me how he can’t believe me. he tells me how it makes him feel bad that i am trying to make him feel bad by saying he hurt my feelings with his unjust accusations. he tells me he is being a good parent. i tell him he is not. he does not speak to me for two weeks. 

i only drive with my mom after that. i get my driver’s license, and i avoid the intersection of 322 west and phoenixville pike like my life depends on it. through that intersection is the most direct way to my best friend’s house. i don’t care. i drive all the way across town around it. when i am forced to go somewhere only the intersection leads to, the same feeling of dread fills my stomach as it did that winter’s day. even though i am normally all alone in the car, i can feel my dad’s ghost haunting me as i yield at the turning lane, reminding me that i am not enough. i am almost 21 years old now, and when i come home from college, i still avoid that intersection. my mom asks why i don’t just take 322 and i don’t tell her. i am scared that one day i will go through it and i will crash for real, distracted by the memory of failed love. 

vi. pennsylvania

i am 20 now and i occasionally go home and visit my family in pennsylvania. poor pa. she unjustly receives the brunt of my dislike because an angry man decided to raise his family there and now a sad girl goes back and sees in the state a place she has outgrown and dislikes being in. everytime i drive home or grab the northeast regional train, a familiar feeling of dread creeps, growing larger and larger the closer i get to the town i grew up in. i do not want to go “home.” i do not want to see my dad. i do not want to confront the strained relationship, or deal with the problems that still haunt me, or be reminded of the plight of the little brothers i leave behind when i leave pa and escape my dad’s grasp. getting off my exit and seeing the “welcome to pennsylvania!” sign fills me not with nostalgia or excitement, but with anxiety. the liberty bell on the sign is ironic to me. of course i grew up in the state whose symbol is one of freedom, when really i feel like i am going back to a prison. 

the depths of my deep dislike for pennsylvania however, are made deeper by the contrast of the great love i have for the district of columbia. similar to how i dislike pa for nothing she has done but rather for the people in her, i adore dc not for the city itself but for the people in it. the little grace who sat next to her brother coloring in silence and cried in the car and avoided the dog and made bad turns and got yelled at knew nothing different. she survived, because it was all she knew how to do. older grace went to college relieved to be out of her home, but not knowing the joy that could possibly be present for her there. for the first time in her life, she discovered not stifling silence, but the peaceful silence of what it was like to not be yelled at everyday. for the first time in her life, “going home” meant returning to a dorm room where she didn’t have to worry about getting in trouble. for the first time in her life, people loved her just for who she was, and not for what she did or didn’t do. 

going home to pa now might be something i don’t like, but it is because i now have something i love. the pain may be worse than it was when i was a child, but it is worse because i now know something better exists. i now have Friends who make me feel chosen, loved, and seen. i now know Men who have shown me that They will not always disappoint you and that Dads do exist. i have hope that one day, i will live in a State i like in a Home i created with a Family i love, and be married to the Dad of our children. and in our house, there will not be silence or dogs or clean cars or scared children. there will not be an angry man, or a dad. There will be a Dad.