A brief portrait of a dysfunctional family, through the eyes of the depressed gay son. —
Allegedly my father was excited when I was born because he’d gotten a boy. “Now we have one of each,” he said. Rachel had initially been excited when my mother had been pregnant with me but shortly after I was born she decided that having a baby brother wasn’t all she had hoped it would be. Once she tried to sell me at the side of the road for $20. She had some strange amusement at my expense though. When I was two years old my mom caught her elbow-deep in mom’s make-up basket painting my face with blush, mascara, lipstick, and eyeshadow. She washed my face under warm water and spanked my sister.
Ever since I can remember I was scared of my father. Some of my earliest memories include my sister putting me in the tire swing out back behind my home in North Carolina and pushing me with all her might and my mom inviting me to help her bake chocolate chip cookies for some church luncheon. She told me not to stick my fingers in the batter and lick them because I might get salmonella, but of course I did it anyway. As soon as the phone rang and she went in her apron and socked feet to answer, I stuck my hands in the batter and started noisily sucking it off of my fingers, smacking my lips and sneaking glances behind me.
I stood on my Winnie the Pooh stool at the kitchen counter and ate as much batter as I could without it becoming really noticeable. I remember in those early years, from the ages of four to seven, my mom putting disinfectant and Scooby-Doo band-aids on my knee when I fell off my tricycle (which I did often, being what my dad dubbed to be ‘the least coordinated kid ever,’) taking care of me when I had a fever and bribing me with toys and sweets and all matter of nice things to take my foul-tasting medicine, hugging me, kissing me, and sitting on the bed next to me after I had a nightmare reading me a picture book or singing to me. I loved Curious George, and I really loved her singing me Bob Dylan for some reason.
Sometimes she’d fix me a glass of milk and a slice of pound cake. If I was unable to go back to sleep for more than an hour she’d just leave me. She told me what a gift I was and how much she loved me. I barely remember my dad at all from those years. He rarely looked at me or touched me for the most part, and I would sometimes toddle up to him while he was asleep in his arm chair and touch his big rough hands, and once I even took his hand in mine and rubbed my face against it, enjoying the tough, scratchy sensation. I once told him I wanted hands just like his when I grew up. He said, “Well, son, you’ll have to work just as hard as I do. Otherwise your hands will just remain soft.” He didn’t seem to prefer physical affection, and he soon realized, to his disillusionment and surprise, that I had nothing in common with him. Absolutely nothing. It was like I wasn’t even his, like the old joke about the mailman.
Sarah's Corner 