passive aggressive reaction to almost absolutely everything, and even perfect Derrick.
I remember he smashed through the door while I was being chastised for being bullied. He was waving his report card like it was Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.
“I’m being skipped! I’m being skipped!” he cheered.
As he always, my father reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “I don’t know what to do with you, Nola. I never knew what to do with you.”
He tucked the money into my hand and went off to join Derrick and my mom in the living room. From the barstool I was sitting on in the kitchen with sticks in my hair, an icepack in one hand, $150 in the other. I watched as Derrick was praised. My parents gave him proud smiles, benevolent eyes, and exuberant pats on the back, shoulders, and head. I watched as our father morphed into butter right before my eyes. If I had ever wondered before, that day it was confirmed that my feelings meant nothing to them. If time had been frozen and placed in their hands to control, our parents still wouldn’t have used that time to be there for me, because my father didn’t like me. Even though my eight year-old body had been tortured by the town’s worst bullies, they chose to shower Derrick.
That day in particular, summed up how it always had been for me growing up. Derrick was exalted and shown off to family and friends, while I was merely paid to stay out of trouble, be happy, and forget it all. Derrick always had our parents’ attention, and I was left having to prove that I was worthy of that same attention, acceptance, and recognition, too. I carried that weight with me into my teenage years and adulthood. I spent my life constantly vying for attention, even if it meant breaking some rules. I was vying for recognition, even if it meant starting fights just so I could play the hero. I was vying for acceptance, even if it meant putting on a façade from time to time or falling for all kinds of guys—the goods, the bads, and the uglies.
Dominic stretched his 6’1’, 206 lbs. body and headed for the door. Just before he exited, he said, “I’m proud of you, Nola.”
I smiled at his random but regular compliment.
He chanted, “Push hard. Pull hard. Chug hard like—“
“Like a train,” we said his favorite advice to me in unison.
He high-fived me and gave me a warm smile. As he left, I thought about how Dominic would never fully understand my animosity towards our brother, Boy-Perfect. He wasn’t there during my terrible childhood nor was he aware of the isolation I felt for the first ten years of my life. I didn’t actually hate Derrick. I despised our disparity. While I struggled with never feeling good enough, Derrick was celebrated daily. He was the perfect blend of our parents characteristically and physically. He was perfectly intelligent and spoke with perfect diction. Then, he grew up and graduated college with perfect grades and wound up working for a perfect Fortune 500 company. He was married to the perfect wife, and together they created a perfect baby girl. He lived in a perfect home in the most perfect section of Philadelphia… and, the man even had the perfect secret.
After I finished putting away my clothes, I finally turned my phone back on. There were two voicemails from Silas. The first one was energetic: Hey it’s Silas. The address you gave me sent me to some farm. Call me back! The second one was low and flustered: Yo, it’s Silas. I guess you aren’t getting service. Every time I call, I get your voicemail. Anyway, I’ve been driving around for ten minutes, and I don’t see anything residential…. Uh… uh, I guess I’ll wait
I remember he smashed through the door while I was being chastised for being bullied. He was waving his report card like it was Willy Wonka’s golden ticket.
“I’m being skipped! I’m being skipped!” he cheered.
As he always, my father reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of cash. “I don’t know what to do with you, Nola. I never knew what to do with you.”
He tucked the money into my hand and went off to join Derrick and my mom in the living room. From the barstool I was sitting on in the kitchen with sticks in my hair, an icepack in one hand, $150 in the other. I watched as Derrick was praised. My parents gave him proud smiles, benevolent eyes, and exuberant pats on the back, shoulders, and head. I watched as our father morphed into butter right before my eyes. If I had ever wondered before, that day it was confirmed that my feelings meant nothing to them. If time had been frozen and placed in their hands to control, our parents still wouldn’t have used that time to be there for me, because my father didn’t like me. Even though my eight year-old body had been tortured by the town’s worst bullies, they chose to shower Derrick.
That day in particular, summed up how it always had been for me growing up. Derrick was exalted and shown off to family and friends, while I was merely paid to stay out of trouble, be happy, and forget it all. Derrick always had our parents’ attention, and I was left having to prove that I was worthy of that same attention, acceptance, and recognition, too. I carried that weight with me into my teenage years and adulthood. I spent my life constantly vying for attention, even if it meant breaking some rules. I was vying for recognition, even if it meant starting fights just so I could play the hero. I was vying for acceptance, even if it meant putting on a façade from time to time or falling for all kinds of guys—the goods, the bads, and the uglies.
Dominic stretched his 6’1’, 206 lbs. body and headed for the door. Just before he exited, he said, “I’m proud of you, Nola.”
I smiled at his random but regular compliment.
He chanted, “Push hard. Pull hard. Chug hard like—“
“Like a train,” we said his favorite advice to me in unison.
He high-fived me and gave me a warm smile. As he left, I thought about how Dominic would never fully understand my animosity towards our brother, Boy-Perfect. He wasn’t there during my terrible childhood nor was he aware of the isolation I felt for the first ten years of my life. I didn’t actually hate Derrick. I despised our disparity. While I struggled with never feeling good enough, Derrick was celebrated daily. He was the perfect blend of our parents characteristically and physically. He was perfectly intelligent and spoke with perfect diction. Then, he grew up and graduated college with perfect grades and wound up working for a perfect Fortune 500 company. He was married to the perfect wife, and together they created a perfect baby girl. He lived in a perfect home in the most perfect section of Philadelphia… and, the man even had the perfect secret.
After I finished putting away my clothes, I finally turned my phone back on. There were two voicemails from Silas. The first one was energetic: Hey it’s Silas. The address you gave me sent me to some farm. Call me back! The second one was low and flustered: Yo, it’s Silas. I guess you aren’t getting service. Every time I call, I get your voicemail. Anyway, I’ve been driving around for ten minutes, and I don’t see anything residential…. Uh… uh, I guess I’ll wait
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