Dear Diary: To Give Or Receive
A brief story.
My dad and I have a no-contact agreement, that is, I don't contact him and twice a year or so he sends me humorous spam email or a birthday note or a letter explaining that I'm a bad daughter and should show him some respect as is his prerogative as the goddamn paterfamilias. On Christmas, he attempts to leverage gift-giving for communication.
I don't thank him for his gifts and I forget to cash his checks. I am never excited to receive communication.
It shook me up pretty hard when he moved out. My mom had to talk me out of exhuming the skull of my favorite goat and mailing it to him to show my displeasure. He didn't seem too impressed with the disturbing poetry I wrote instead, which I brought to a group counseling session six years ago, the last time I saw him.
He's a self-important son of a bitch. My grandmother gave us permission to use that term regarding him.
He never touched me in anger or any other passion, but years later, the thought of him showing up at one of my sporting events terrified me so much that I threatened to cut off all contact with my grandmother, just as I had done to him, if he did so. It was the only leverage I could think of, and I've regretted thinking of it ever since.
The appearance of a note from him this Christmas was, therefore, nerve-wracking. It could be another check that would expire before I managed to decide if I was too proud to cash it. It could be another letter, talking about how happy he was with his new wife, and weren't we all missing out on the pleasure of his sterling company? And by the way, he might be more generous next year (to the tune of two-hundred dollars in Christmas and birthday gifts, provided I gave him a list first) if I called him.
Compelled by morbid curiosity to see how my dad had proved himself an asshole this year, I steeled myself and tore open the envelope.
Inside was an unlined sheet of paper folded around a twenty dollar bill. On the paper in an irregular scrawl:
Merry Christmas,
DadI wadded up the note and stuck the bill in my pocket, grateful that my dad finally felt pissy enough not to bother with an essay.
I spent the rest of my Christmas with nice people.
My dad and I have a no-contact agreement, that is, I don't contact him and twice a year or so he sends me humorous spam email or a birthday note or a letter explaining that I'm a bad daughter and should show him some respect as is his prerogative as the goddamn paterfamilias. On Christmas, he attempts to leverage gift-giving for communication.
I don't thank him for his gifts and I forget to cash his checks. I am never excited to receive communication.
It shook me up pretty hard when he moved out. My mom had to talk me out of exhuming the skull of my favorite goat and mailing it to him to show my displeasure. He didn't seem too impressed with the disturbing poetry I wrote instead, which I brought to a group counseling session six years ago, the last time I saw him.
He's a self-important son of a bitch. My grandmother gave us permission to use that term regarding him.
He never touched me in anger or any other passion, but years later, the thought of him showing up at one of my sporting events terrified me so much that I threatened to cut off all contact with my grandmother, just as I had done to him, if he did so. It was the only leverage I could think of, and I've regretted thinking of it ever since.
The appearance of a note from him this Christmas was, therefore, nerve-wracking. It could be another check that would expire before I managed to decide if I was too proud to cash it. It could be another letter, talking about how happy he was with his new wife, and weren't we all missing out on the pleasure of his sterling company? And by the way, he might be more generous next year (to the tune of two-hundred dollars in Christmas and birthday gifts, provided I gave him a list first) if I called him.
Compelled by morbid curiosity to see how my dad had proved himself an asshole this year, I steeled myself and tore open the envelope.
Inside was an unlined sheet of paper folded around a twenty dollar bill. On the paper in an irregular scrawl:
Merry Christmas,
DadI wadded up the note and stuck the bill in my pocket, grateful that my dad finally felt pissy enough not to bother with an essay.
I spent the rest of my Christmas with nice people.