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Authors: David Housholder
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age…although I would love to be asked.
Mutti denies she does this, but I believe she works hard behind the scenes to get me invited to parties and beach bonfires. The kids are so friendly here, way more open and sunny than my classmates in Germany. But I don’t know how to act around them. I think I could easily tell if a boy was ever interested in me—but that just doesn’t happen.
I tell Mutti that the parties go well, because she gives me a social coaching session if I don’t. But that encourages her to get me invited even more often. It’s a vicious circle. I want to go to the parties, really I do, but I’m also relieved when the plans sometimes fall through. I often leave early, when I can’t stand the awkwardness of being around people for even one more minute.
Checking the watch on my skinny wrist (I rotate using about twelve of my favorite classic timepieces from the sea chest, and today it’s the Patek Philippe), I see I’m already fifteen minutes late for supper. I’ll just tell Mutti that a classmate and I got carried away shopping. I’ll have to make up a name. I hate that. I’m running out of names for imaginary friends.
Wearing these watches is like taking Opa with me during the day. He’s having a lot of trouble with his eyes and listens to music for hours a day. Funny…I guess. The one person who likes how I look, and now he can’t see me very well. He’s had two eye surgeries, but I think the doctors are merely guessing about what to do for his vision. We went to the best eye doctors in the world at UCLA, but even that isn’t helping.
Opa and I take the Wilshire bus together down to Santa Monica several times a month. I describe things to him en route. While walking the 3rd Street Promenade and the Pier, I put my arm in his and guide him—in such a way that no one else would ever guess he has eye problems. (He has a lot of trouble with curbs.) A couple of my classmates have seen us walking arm in arm. Those are a few of the times since we moved here that I feel truly happy. They saw me with someone who loves me. I blush—but in a good way that feels wonderful.
Opa and I can talk for hours about the secrets we found in the attic back home in Germany. I continue to think about how I am a product of those dramas from generations past.
Papa looks more nervous than ever. The move here to the Los Angeles German Consulate was supposed to be a promotion. I suppose it was, but it seems like too much responsibility for him. Is it wrong not to want to be much like either of your parents?
I’ve noticed that my parents drink more than anyone else here. Is it just because they’re Germans—or because they’re unhappy with the way life turned out for them? I’m not sure, but I sure don’t want to grow up to be like them. Mutti often has a Bloody Mary first thing in the morning. And Papa is drinking way more than he used to. He still seems so self-conscious around me. We’ve never had a truly smooth conversation. It always feels a little embarrassing, even when we’re not talking about embarrassing things. I don’t think it’s me. He just has an even more agitated temperament than I do.
I know about their drinking volume, because I raid their liquor cabinet at night when I can’t sleep and during the evenings when they’re out. I’ve sampled almost everything they have there—adding water here and there to the bottles. Sometimes I wake up with a throbbing headache, but they haven’t caught me yet. They have so many extra bottles that I occasionally sell one to my friends (who are too young to buy it at a liquor store) for extra shopping money.
Californian students are friendly enough. They talk to me when I sit with them, and they seem welcoming. But they never come and sit with me. They only come looking for me if they want access to alcohol. I sometimes pretend I’m low on supply just to keep them coming back more than once so they’ll talk to me.
In the middle of the night,
Mutti denies she does this, but I believe she works hard behind the scenes to get me invited to parties and beach bonfires. The kids are so friendly here, way more open and sunny than my classmates in Germany. But I don’t know how to act around them. I think I could easily tell if a boy was ever interested in me—but that just doesn’t happen.
I tell Mutti that the parties go well, because she gives me a social coaching session if I don’t. But that encourages her to get me invited even more often. It’s a vicious circle. I want to go to the parties, really I do, but I’m also relieved when the plans sometimes fall through. I often leave early, when I can’t stand the awkwardness of being around people for even one more minute.
Checking the watch on my skinny wrist (I rotate using about twelve of my favorite classic timepieces from the sea chest, and today it’s the Patek Philippe), I see I’m already fifteen minutes late for supper. I’ll just tell Mutti that a classmate and I got carried away shopping. I’ll have to make up a name. I hate that. I’m running out of names for imaginary friends.
Wearing these watches is like taking Opa with me during the day. He’s having a lot of trouble with his eyes and listens to music for hours a day. Funny…I guess. The one person who likes how I look, and now he can’t see me very well. He’s had two eye surgeries, but I think the doctors are merely guessing about what to do for his vision. We went to the best eye doctors in the world at UCLA, but even that isn’t helping.
Opa and I take the Wilshire bus together down to Santa Monica several times a month. I describe things to him en route. While walking the 3rd Street Promenade and the Pier, I put my arm in his and guide him—in such a way that no one else would ever guess he has eye problems. (He has a lot of trouble with curbs.) A couple of my classmates have seen us walking arm in arm. Those are a few of the times since we moved here that I feel truly happy. They saw me with someone who loves me. I blush—but in a good way that feels wonderful.
Opa and I can talk for hours about the secrets we found in the attic back home in Germany. I continue to think about how I am a product of those dramas from generations past.
Papa looks more nervous than ever. The move here to the Los Angeles German Consulate was supposed to be a promotion. I suppose it was, but it seems like too much responsibility for him. Is it wrong not to want to be much like either of your parents?
I’ve noticed that my parents drink more than anyone else here. Is it just because they’re Germans—or because they’re unhappy with the way life turned out for them? I’m not sure, but I sure don’t want to grow up to be like them. Mutti often has a Bloody Mary first thing in the morning. And Papa is drinking way more than he used to. He still seems so self-conscious around me. We’ve never had a truly smooth conversation. It always feels a little embarrassing, even when we’re not talking about embarrassing things. I don’t think it’s me. He just has an even more agitated temperament than I do.
I know about their drinking volume, because I raid their liquor cabinet at night when I can’t sleep and during the evenings when they’re out. I’ve sampled almost everything they have there—adding water here and there to the bottles. Sometimes I wake up with a throbbing headache, but they haven’t caught me yet. They have so many extra bottles that I occasionally sell one to my friends (who are too young to buy it at a liquor store) for extra shopping money.
Californian students are friendly enough. They talk to me when I sit with them, and they seem welcoming. But they never come and sit with me. They only come looking for me if they want access to alcohol. I sometimes pretend I’m low on supply just to keep them coming back more than once so they’ll talk to me.
In the middle of the night,
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