Friday, June 22, 2007
This afternoon I went to the mall for earrings. I came out feeling dirty and having bought one pair of underwear, four pairs of socks, one pair of homeboy jeans, one pair of cargo pants, and nineteen pairs of earrings. I did well.
Upon returning from the mall, I called a couple of relatives, to be assured they were still alive and to assure them that I am still alive, despite some savage spider's ambition to assassinate me. My aunt (my father's sister) reminded me that today is his fiftieth birthday, and she suggested I call him. I considered it, but I have little to say, other than
I'm glad you've made it to fifty. I'm sorry you've made it to fifty without learning how to be a mature, responsible adult. Maybe by the time I'm fifty, you'll be a grown-up, too.My aunt asked me to explain precisely what my father did to make me refuse to speak to him anymore. I could not very well enumerate everything over the phone, but I made known to her, among other things, the fact that he told me he drove me to Tech and left me in Lubbock because he wanted to get rid of me. That the spring semester prior, I had been taking nineteen hours of classes with a 4.0 GPA, I worked thirty-six hours or more per week, I never received any money or help from him, and I had no idea what more he could possibly want from me. He used my refusal to consider his new wife as an authority figure as an excuse to stop co-signing on the loans to get me through school.
The man has always made me feel guilty for existing, and he essentially tried to ruin my life (which is something I am perfectly capable of doing on my own, without his help). He abandoned me, knowing full well I made below the national poverty level, because he feared he would not be able to get his new wife a minivan. He has reached the age of fifty, and still feels some need to prioritize the people in his life around each other. My aunt claims my father misses me, but if he does, he ought to figure out a way to make room for me in that Brady Bunch From Hell family of his. I suspect I'm a "Jan".
No more ranting. Time to snuggle Kermie.
[Lauree Frances Keith concluded this diatribe at 6:56 PM]