scratches to a screeching halt as our smiles fade to frowns.
“Who left this crap lying around?” he demands, sick and tired
of our sloppiness.
“We didn’t mean to leave it here,” I explain, defending us.
“Then why is it here?” he questions, his eyes making us feel
even more stupid.
“We must’ve forgotten it after we changed,” I mumble, watch-
ing as he paces, wiping his nose, furious as he cogitates about how
to deal with his idiot children.
“That’s right! You forgot. You two don’t have jack shit to do
around here! I gave you a very simple task! Maybe you can try
picking up your crap for a change!” he shouts.
Savannah and I glance at each other, frightened by his mean
tone.
“You girls have everything you could possibly want. Most kids
are envious of your lifestyle! But I can take it away if you’re not
happy!” he screams violently. His tone makes us weak.
“You don’t need to get so mad,” I say, hesitantly, knowing he
could ask us calmly or perhaps remind us not to leave our things
lying around, but that never happens.
“Don’t tell me how to act! Do you hear me?”
Dad shakes his head violently as he stalks through the room.
“Where did you learn your manners? Your mother?”
Our faces burn with shame from constantly swallowing critical
comments about Mom. We try to block them out, but sometimes
they sink in and we wonder if they are true.
“Is somebody going to answer me?” he rages, and Savannah
begins to cry.
51
J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R
The more she cries, the more he screams.
“And what’s that smell?” he sniffs, leaning toward Savannah,
who visually disintegrates and breaks down.
Her cry terrifies me; it shatters my heart into tiny pieces.
“You stink! Go wash under your arms! How many times have I
told you to wash under your fucking arms? Jesus! Didn’t your
mother teach you how to clean yourself ?”
I want to stick up for her but I am afraid. I can’t stop him. We
remain silent, lost in shame.
Dad leaves, slamming the door behind him.
I try to comfort Savannah. I want her to be okay, but she isn’t.
Sobs rack her small body while my thin arms wrap around her.
Terror and self-loathing begin to build in each of us. Savannah
and I become uncomfortable with our own development as we
learn to dislike our bodies.
For years and years we will look into mirrors and see ourselves
as not good enough, not pretty enough, not thin enough. We will
see fat even when there is none. We will feel dirty when we are
clean and want to jump out of our skin, escaping our imagined
flaws and imperfections.
I wore many hats as a child with my father. My role was never
clearly defined. I was either his daughter, his running mate, or the
son he never had. I don’t expect anyone to understand it really. It’s
rather complex. In other words, he socialized me, trained me, pro-
grammed me to disrespect women and treat them with little regard.
Women were viewed as lesser people and for years I believed them.
The admiration I had for the men I was surrounded by began with
my seeking their approval and identifying as one of them. Soon, my
respect and admiration turned to disgust and disappointment.
Yet, regardless of who he was dating or screwing at the time,
my father always put me first. He kicked girls out of his house at
the drop of a hat. I knew all their secrets and it was clear I was his
favorite.
Meanwhile, my sister’s role was always consistent. She was
52
Playground
treated like a weekend pet. He was always trying to train her in a
derogatory way. My father knew she favored my mother so he went
out of his way to berate her and treat her like a typical girl, like a
hooker with no respect. He humiliated her regularly. I tried to
stand up for her as best I could, careful not to set off his temper
even more. But my efforts were useless. Perhaps I lowered my head
in shame one too many times, deep down grateful I was the
“Who left this crap lying around?” he demands, sick and tired
of our sloppiness.
“We didn’t mean to leave it here,” I explain, defending us.
“Then why is it here?” he questions, his eyes making us feel
even more stupid.
“We must’ve forgotten it after we changed,” I mumble, watch-
ing as he paces, wiping his nose, furious as he cogitates about how
to deal with his idiot children.
“That’s right! You forgot. You two don’t have jack shit to do
around here! I gave you a very simple task! Maybe you can try
picking up your crap for a change!” he shouts.
Savannah and I glance at each other, frightened by his mean
tone.
“You girls have everything you could possibly want. Most kids
are envious of your lifestyle! But I can take it away if you’re not
happy!” he screams violently. His tone makes us weak.
“You don’t need to get so mad,” I say, hesitantly, knowing he
could ask us calmly or perhaps remind us not to leave our things
lying around, but that never happens.
“Don’t tell me how to act! Do you hear me?”
Dad shakes his head violently as he stalks through the room.
“Where did you learn your manners? Your mother?”
Our faces burn with shame from constantly swallowing critical
comments about Mom. We try to block them out, but sometimes
they sink in and we wonder if they are true.
“Is somebody going to answer me?” he rages, and Savannah
begins to cry.
51
J E N N I F E R S A G I N O R
The more she cries, the more he screams.
“And what’s that smell?” he sniffs, leaning toward Savannah,
who visually disintegrates and breaks down.
Her cry terrifies me; it shatters my heart into tiny pieces.
“You stink! Go wash under your arms! How many times have I
told you to wash under your fucking arms? Jesus! Didn’t your
mother teach you how to clean yourself ?”
I want to stick up for her but I am afraid. I can’t stop him. We
remain silent, lost in shame.
Dad leaves, slamming the door behind him.
I try to comfort Savannah. I want her to be okay, but she isn’t.
Sobs rack her small body while my thin arms wrap around her.
Terror and self-loathing begin to build in each of us. Savannah
and I become uncomfortable with our own development as we
learn to dislike our bodies.
For years and years we will look into mirrors and see ourselves
as not good enough, not pretty enough, not thin enough. We will
see fat even when there is none. We will feel dirty when we are
clean and want to jump out of our skin, escaping our imagined
flaws and imperfections.
I wore many hats as a child with my father. My role was never
clearly defined. I was either his daughter, his running mate, or the
son he never had. I don’t expect anyone to understand it really. It’s
rather complex. In other words, he socialized me, trained me, pro-
grammed me to disrespect women and treat them with little regard.
Women were viewed as lesser people and for years I believed them.
The admiration I had for the men I was surrounded by began with
my seeking their approval and identifying as one of them. Soon, my
respect and admiration turned to disgust and disappointment.
Yet, regardless of who he was dating or screwing at the time,
my father always put me first. He kicked girls out of his house at
the drop of a hat. I knew all their secrets and it was clear I was his
favorite.
Meanwhile, my sister’s role was always consistent. She was
52
Playground
treated like a weekend pet. He was always trying to train her in a
derogatory way. My father knew she favored my mother so he went
out of his way to berate her and treat her like a typical girl, like a
hooker with no respect. He humiliated her regularly. I tried to
stand up for her as best I could, careful not to set off his temper
even more. But my efforts were useless. Perhaps I lowered my head
in shame one too many times, deep down grateful I was the
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