Journal Entry - December 29, 1998
I admit, I could have behaved differently, but he's the parent here! Why can't he bloody well act like one? Whatever happened to the man who taught me to ride a broom when I was five? The man who was so proud of me when I became a Prefect, and did well on my OWLs?
I didn't want to come home for the hols, but I figured maybe my Dad had come to his senses since the summer. And after all, it's Christmas - it's supposed to be a time for family, and forgiveness. I was ready to forgive, but only if Dad was willing to at least try to let this go.
Guess what? I'll give you three guesses, and the first two don't count. Exactly - he wasn't willing to see things my way at all. Kept on about how my way was pulling away from family traditions. So you know what I did? I wore my full tartan to the yearly party we have with my aunts' families. Suffice it to say, he was not amused - though I got a kick out of my cousin Esther trying to peek under my kilt to see if I was going regimental (I was), and little Joel asking aunt Josephine why I was allowed to wear a skirt and he couldn't.
When we got home, Dad and I fought more, just getting louder and louder and louder, neither of us willing to back down. I was the first one to stop, not because of anything he said, but because I heard a sniffle coming from the kitchen. Mum was crying, because of us. I'd never known her to cry openly - she was always one to stay strong for everyone else - so knowing we'd reduced her to tears hurt more than anything my father might have said. So instead of responding to his latest argument, I turned around and ran upstairs to my room, where I immediately released my anger by tearing up sets of notes from my OWL year, as well as tests and papers with high marks that I'd once proudly affixed to the wall.
We haven't spoken since then, my father and I. We go to meals, and speak to my mother, but never to each other. Two more days and that's it. I'm meeting up with Michael and a few of our friends to spend the New Year, and I'm planning on having my bags packed and shrunk. If I have to, I'll spend the rest of the days at a friend's place until it's time to go back to school.
I just can't do this anymore.
I am not the 'perfect pureblooded son'. Yes, I'm a blood traitor, and proud of it! But that doesn't mean I don't care about my family, my history. My motives may not have been the most pure, but I am always honoured to wear my tartan. I know how far back Dad's family goes, way further than Mum's 9 generations (purebloods count by the side with the lowest number of pureblood generations, or at least we do). I can speak Scots Gaelic as well as English, just as he taught me, and I do want a family one day. So what if I'm seeing a bloke - that doesn't mean we couldn't have a family if we wanted to, it just means it's more complicated. It is possible to maintain our family traditions and heritage without subscribing to the pro-pureblood rubbish - and I fully intend on proving that.
But I am not going to talk to him again until he can accept me for who I am. And after school, whether or not I go to St. Mungo's, I'm not coming back, either until he can. He's made it perfectly clear that as long as I live under 'his' roof, that I'm to obey 'his' rules. Fine - I'm legally an adult, so I don't have to live under his roof anymore.
I'll visit Mum still, just when Dad's not home. I love her, and I hate what we're doing to her... but I can't back down on this. What he's demanding isn't just, and if I could stand up against Death Eaters, then surely I can stand up against him for what's right.
I just... I wish I had my old Dad back.
I didn't want to come home for the hols, but I figured maybe my Dad had come to his senses since the summer. And after all, it's Christmas - it's supposed to be a time for family, and forgiveness. I was ready to forgive, but only if Dad was willing to at least try to let this go.
Guess what? I'll give you three guesses, and the first two don't count. Exactly - he wasn't willing to see things my way at all. Kept on about how my way was pulling away from family traditions. So you know what I did? I wore my full tartan to the yearly party we have with my aunts' families. Suffice it to say, he was not amused - though I got a kick out of my cousin Esther trying to peek under my kilt to see if I was going regimental (I was), and little Joel asking aunt Josephine why I was allowed to wear a skirt and he couldn't.
When we got home, Dad and I fought more, just getting louder and louder and louder, neither of us willing to back down. I was the first one to stop, not because of anything he said, but because I heard a sniffle coming from the kitchen. Mum was crying, because of us. I'd never known her to cry openly - she was always one to stay strong for everyone else - so knowing we'd reduced her to tears hurt more than anything my father might have said. So instead of responding to his latest argument, I turned around and ran upstairs to my room, where I immediately released my anger by tearing up sets of notes from my OWL year, as well as tests and papers with high marks that I'd once proudly affixed to the wall.
We haven't spoken since then, my father and I. We go to meals, and speak to my mother, but never to each other. Two more days and that's it. I'm meeting up with Michael and a few of our friends to spend the New Year, and I'm planning on having my bags packed and shrunk. If I have to, I'll spend the rest of the days at a friend's place until it's time to go back to school.
I just can't do this anymore.
I am not the 'perfect pureblooded son'. Yes, I'm a blood traitor, and proud of it! But that doesn't mean I don't care about my family, my history. My motives may not have been the most pure, but I am always honoured to wear my tartan. I know how far back Dad's family goes, way further than Mum's 9 generations (purebloods count by the side with the lowest number of pureblood generations, or at least we do). I can speak Scots Gaelic as well as English, just as he taught me, and I do want a family one day. So what if I'm seeing a bloke - that doesn't mean we couldn't have a family if we wanted to, it just means it's more complicated. It is possible to maintain our family traditions and heritage without subscribing to the pro-pureblood rubbish - and I fully intend on proving that.
But I am not going to talk to him again until he can accept me for who I am. And after school, whether or not I go to St. Mungo's, I'm not coming back, either until he can. He's made it perfectly clear that as long as I live under 'his' roof, that I'm to obey 'his' rules. Fine - I'm legally an adult, so I don't have to live under his roof anymore.
I'll visit Mum still, just when Dad's not home. I love her, and I hate what we're doing to her... but I can't back down on this. What he's demanding isn't just, and if I could stand up against Death Eaters, then surely I can stand up against him for what's right.
I just... I wish I had my old Dad back.