mother. Julie was surely the kind of mother who flaunted her good looks and made her daughter feel she would never be as beautiful. Maybe that was part of what had destroyed her first marriage. I listened between the lines whenever I heard her describing it, and I felt confident that her ex-husband had grown tired of being married to someone who was more in love with herself than with him. I wondered when my father would grow tired of that, too.
From the details I learned from Allison when I was able to get her to talk about it, the fights between Julie and her ex-husband had bordered on physical. I easily imagined Allison behind a closed door with her hands over her ears and her teeth clenched, half expecting the ceiling to come falling onto her head. I had read sociological and psychological studies on domestic turmoil to do a paper for my history teacher, so I knew that when parents went at each other like that, their children feel theyâre also being pulled apart. If the children are very young at the time, they actually can develop medical problems, such as trouble with digestion, and learning disabilities.
While reading about all of this domestic turmoil and its effect on children, I felt like screaming. Could parents be so blind that they couldnât see what they were doing to those they supposedly loved? The truth seemed to be that people hurt those they claimed to love more than they hurt those they didnât. I listened and overheard stories other students told about their home lives. To me, it was very clear what was happening and what the results would be. When I mentioned some of this to my father once, he brightened and said, âMaybe you should be a psychiatrist, Mayfair, a child psychiatrist. Youâd be great.â
Iâd be great at anything I did, I thought. That wasnât the point. What was obvious was that my father needed me to be aiming at something tangible, something he could cite. He couldnât explain that his daughter was going to be a student for most of her life, maybe a philosopher. Everyone elseâs daughter was going to be a teacher, a lawyer, something in the fashion industry, perhaps a doctor. Something.
All of this, my life at home, my fatherâs expectations, my teachers, and the pressures other students subtly put on me, made me want to scream. Often, I was in the school library when this urge came over me. Imagine what that would have done, what it would have added to the image I had at school. The librarian, Mr. Monk, already thought I was something created in a laboratory. The speed with which I went through books seemed to frighten him. He was a tall, thin man with glassy gray-blue eyes and very thin light brown hair. Whether I imagined it or not, he seemed to step back whenever I approached the desk, as if he expected I might throw a book I was returning at him because I found it poorly written or something.
After having done the paper on domestic crisis, I was sure I could diagnose Allisonâs problems. She seemed to be a classic example of what could result, which was why I wasnât sympathetic as much as I was curious about her. It was as if a good case study had been delivered to my doorstep. My father wasnât too far off with his latest suggestion for my career. Anything to do with psychology was intriguing, so I was happy to have the opportunity to study something firsthand.
In the beginning, I approached her the way a good therapist might. I wanted to know how much her parentsâ nasty divorce had destroyed her emotionally. I formed my questions carefully. I wanted to see if she had any talents, abilities that her mother had stifled. What would her feelings be about my father and her relationship with him? Would she see him as an interloper, someone who didnât have any business being in their lives, or would she see him as a wonderful change, a hope?
My father mistook my interest and my talks with Allison for a desire to
From the details I learned from Allison when I was able to get her to talk about it, the fights between Julie and her ex-husband had bordered on physical. I easily imagined Allison behind a closed door with her hands over her ears and her teeth clenched, half expecting the ceiling to come falling onto her head. I had read sociological and psychological studies on domestic turmoil to do a paper for my history teacher, so I knew that when parents went at each other like that, their children feel theyâre also being pulled apart. If the children are very young at the time, they actually can develop medical problems, such as trouble with digestion, and learning disabilities.
While reading about all of this domestic turmoil and its effect on children, I felt like screaming. Could parents be so blind that they couldnât see what they were doing to those they supposedly loved? The truth seemed to be that people hurt those they claimed to love more than they hurt those they didnât. I listened and overheard stories other students told about their home lives. To me, it was very clear what was happening and what the results would be. When I mentioned some of this to my father once, he brightened and said, âMaybe you should be a psychiatrist, Mayfair, a child psychiatrist. Youâd be great.â
Iâd be great at anything I did, I thought. That wasnât the point. What was obvious was that my father needed me to be aiming at something tangible, something he could cite. He couldnât explain that his daughter was going to be a student for most of her life, maybe a philosopher. Everyone elseâs daughter was going to be a teacher, a lawyer, something in the fashion industry, perhaps a doctor. Something.
All of this, my life at home, my fatherâs expectations, my teachers, and the pressures other students subtly put on me, made me want to scream. Often, I was in the school library when this urge came over me. Imagine what that would have done, what it would have added to the image I had at school. The librarian, Mr. Monk, already thought I was something created in a laboratory. The speed with which I went through books seemed to frighten him. He was a tall, thin man with glassy gray-blue eyes and very thin light brown hair. Whether I imagined it or not, he seemed to step back whenever I approached the desk, as if he expected I might throw a book I was returning at him because I found it poorly written or something.
After having done the paper on domestic crisis, I was sure I could diagnose Allisonâs problems. She seemed to be a classic example of what could result, which was why I wasnât sympathetic as much as I was curious about her. It was as if a good case study had been delivered to my doorstep. My father wasnât too far off with his latest suggestion for my career. Anything to do with psychology was intriguing, so I was happy to have the opportunity to study something firsthand.
In the beginning, I approached her the way a good therapist might. I wanted to know how much her parentsâ nasty divorce had destroyed her emotionally. I formed my questions carefully. I wanted to see if she had any talents, abilities that her mother had stifled. What would her feelings be about my father and her relationship with him? Would she see him as an interloper, someone who didnât have any business being in their lives, or would she see him as a wonderful change, a hope?
My father mistook my interest and my talks with Allison for a desire to
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