That night, I did not quite sleep soundly, but with a dim uncertainty. My dreams were a black abyss of ambiguity, and the haze was surrounding me from all sides. I did not awaken once, though I did stir, and I felt groggy in the morning. Shafts of light came pouring through my bedroom window like shards of broken glass, and I rolled over on my side to block out the seemingly blinding rays.

 

 

 

           Today was Sunday, which meant two things: going to church and school tomorrow. I all but shuddered at the second thought. Still, I’d have to face everybody sooner or later, so why not just get it over with?           

I sluggishly rolled out of bed, taking the covers with me. I sighed and picked them up, not bothering to arrange them neatly. I went downstairs and realized that Daddy was already up, reading the Sunday paper. I said good morning and he kissed me on the forehead. I sat down next to him and leaned over to see if there was anything interesting. In the real estate section, property values were skyrocketing. We read the comics together, this week Calvin and Hobbes. It was always fun to read about the whimsical imaginations and amusing antics of Calvin and his stuffed tiger, Hobbes.           

“Anything good?” I mumbled, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.           

“Well, not exactly. I heard on the radio this morning that Billy Carter, brother of Jimmy Carter, died in his sleep at 7 AM. Pancreatic cancer, I think it was,” Dad replied.           

Then, something occurred to me. “Daddy, don’t you have a brother? And a sister?” I inquired.

My dad didn’t usually talk about his siblings, or his father for that matter. He mostly mentioned his mother, and how she was the one he looked up to growing up, as opposed to his father. And I knew that his father—my grandfather—was deceased, for he had died in Vietnam.  He only spoke of his other family members if they ever came up in the conversation.

For example, when Daddy was a kid, his mother would call him and his siblings when it was time to come inside after dark. He would be the first one at the door, and his mother would say, “You always listen to me, Shawnie. Never too wrapped up in games to say good-night. Now, let’s go find the rest of the Miracle clan!” And then they would roam about the backyard, seeking his siblings.

 Sometimes, Dad’s brothers and sister would call him a “mama’s boy”, but they didn’t often bring up the fact that he was adopted. For the most part, he was treated like an actual member of the family—because essentially, that’s what he was.

My question seemed to jolt Daddy out of his silent reverie. He nodded somewhat nonchalantly, but I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Was it remorse? Uncertainty? Nostalgia?

“Yeah,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, I had two brothers, Harry and Max. Harry was the oldest, and Max the youngest. But Harry died in Vietnam, just like my dad. And my sister’s name is Lydia. I don’t know where they live now, but they moved after they went off to college. I’m not in contact with them anymore.”

There was no trace of resentment in his voice, but perhaps a bit of wistfulness.

“I wonder what your family was like,” I mused, thinking aloud.

Instead of changing the subject, he said, “Well, I’ve already told you about my mom. A wonderful person in every aspect. Even though I was the only one of her kids who was adopted, I believe I was closer to her than my brothers and sister were. But I don’t think she had favorites, because she said that we were all special to her in different ways.

“My biological mother, who all but disappeared off the face of the earth, went to the same church as my adoptive parents. She knew they wanted to have another child after Harry, so she asked my mom to take me under her wing. I’ll admit that it was sensible and responsible of her to make sure that I would have a nice family…and I’m thankful she did. But right after I was born, she left town—Indianapolis—and was never seen again. She was in a tough situation, and she faced ostracism for getting pregnant while unmarried.

“But my adoptive mother loved me as her own, despite the circumstances. She wanted to raise me and give me a life that my teenage biological mom couldn’t. My family didn’t speak of her after she disappeared…out of sight, out of mind. We figured that everything happened for a reason, and this was no different. And so it was.

“Not everyone knew about my parents adopting a child at first, but my family wasn’t going to lie about it. Pretty soon, most of the town found out, and many people had their own opinions on the matter. But soon, the hubbub died down, and my mother let the comments slide off her back. She said that she did the right thing, and if she could live her whole life over again, then she still would’ve adopted me,” Dad told me.           

 

He poured a bowl of Cheerios for each of us, and continued to reminisce on his family life.      

“As for my dad…he was a good person, and he had upright virtues, but he didn’t usually show much emotion. He believed that a real man should never cry, especially not in front of anyone else. He had set views on the way a man should be. Strong, tough, brave…” Daddy’s voice trailed off.

“But Dad, you already are all those things!” I declared.My father had a pensive, far-off expression on his face.

“I wish he thought so,” Daddy murmured softly.“To be honest, I don’t think he really approved of my mom taking me under her wing. He wanted his children to be his own. But I thought of him as my real father, and my adoptive mom as my real mother! Still, he wasn’t mean or nasty to me. Deep down, I believe my dad did love me, in his own way. He even signed me up to sing in the local boys’ choir when I was young. I believe I had a great childhood, not just because of my mother, but because of my whole family. I’ll never forget my brothers’ antics, my sister’s dreams of becoming a dancer, my father’s intelligence and wit, or my mother’s kind soul.   

“Nevertheless, I wasn’t close to my dad. I felt like he didn’t understand me, and he tried to make me become something I wasn’t. He wanted me to play football like my brothers, but I just wanted to keep singing. Trust me, I’m not an athlete.

“One time, he told me, ‘Shawn, you’ve got brains, and you could have brawn, too. You should try lifting weights; get in shape for sports. The coach needs more players this year, and I promised him my boys would be there at tryouts.  Miracle Men don’t let anything stand in their way. They get out there and tear ‘em up! What do you say?’ The truth was, I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to follow my dreams, not his. I tried to tell him that I didn’t want to, that my heart wasn’t in it, but he didn’t listen. He just shook his head and sighed. He mumbled, ‘Well, technically it’s not in your blood like it is the rest of us.’”              

Dad put his head in his hands and exhaled deeply.

“I’m sorry about that…” I murmured weakly, my voice small. I didn’t know what more I could say. I wasn’t sure, but it was quite possible that he was crying. But that didn’t make him any less of a man, for real men weren’t afraid to cry.              

“Anyways,” my father went on, “I never showed up at tryouts. Later, I told my dad that I didn’t make the team.”             

I stared at the remaining Cheerios in my cereal bowl, and stirred them around. Each was exactly the same size, shape, and color. People weren’t like Cheerios, all identical and unvarying. The whole world was like a giant bowl of Froot Loops, Lucky Charms, Rainbow Brite Cereal, and any other breakfast cereal you could imagine. A multitude of different styles, colors, and tastes.           

“Essie,” Dad said promptly. “If you ever think I’m pressuring you to be something you’re not, please tell me. I would never want to take away from the wonderful person you are.”           

I smiled. “Dad, that’s the last thing you need to worry about. You’ve always let me express myself freely and be who I am. Now you have to allow yourself,” I told him.           

Daddy glanced at the clock in the kitchen. “I think we should start getting ready. We can talk more on the way.”           

We decided to walk to church, since it was a beautiful, sunny day. The first breath of autumn was present in the air, but there wasn’t the slightest chill. The bright red cardinals chirped merrily, and the trees still bore their leaves.                

My dad picked up from where he had left off, about his family which I had heard so little of until today. “And then came Vietnam. I was about eight or nine when it began. I wasn’t one of those hippies who went around rallying and protesting the war or anything like that. And I didn’t talk about it much. But in the back of my mind, I believed that there were other answers besides war. I consider myself a peaceful person, and the thought of so many people dying…it’s a heartrending matter.”

 

Dad appeared to be looking out into the distance, as if seeing life in days of yore.“Whenever my family gathered around the television to watch the news on CBS, I remember being shocked by the gruesomeness and horrors of warfare. It was just so destructive…and utterly terrible, right on the screen in the living room.

“Sometimes, Mom would hold me close, and tell me that war is humankind’s way of dealing with some of its conflicts. At the same time, war is conflict, and a treachery that essentially no one enjoys. ‘As hard as it is for us to witness the war through the media, it’s a million times harder for the soldiers to live through it every day. If they can be strong, then so must we,’ she said.

 

“And my mother taught me that no matter how long or brutal war is, God’s still up in heaven protecting all His children. Even when countless souls are killed, they die with honor and bravery, and the fear of death is no longer. Trials and tribulations and hardships—like war—can either harden your heart or strengthen your soul and capacity to believe. Most of the time, it’s a matter of letting yourself do one, or willing yourself to do the other.        

 

“My brothers had a different perspective on the war than I did. They were fascinated by the tanks and aircrafts…sometimes they would play combat, pretend to shoot each other and what not. I joined in a couple times, but when I did, I thought of the real soldiers, over in Vietnam. It wasn’t a game for them. So I told them I couldn’t play anyone—it just didn’t feel right. They called me a sissy and a spoilsport, and that I’d have to learn to be a man sooner or later,” Dad said.

 

“But I don’t see how they were making themselves any manlier by playing war games,” I commented.

 

“Me neither,” Daddy agreed. “But I guess they were making my father happy, which counted for something. He supported the war, and spoke of communism like it was a deadly disease. And I understood what he meant about the evils of communism. But he was just so gung ho for…well, war in general, I reckon. He certainly didn’t relish in the pain, death, and suffering of it—my father wasn’t a bad, malicious person. Though maybe he allowed himself to overlook those aspects of war… But mostly, he focused on victory and vehemence; the importance of preventing the communists from taking over South Vietnam.

 

“My father also scorned the hippies, or ‘beautiful people’, as they were called. He saw them as brain-dead bums, who did nothing but get high and hallucinate; spending all their time fantasizing about serenity and peace and love,” Dad continued.

 

I frowned. “Well, I don’t see anything wrong with being a hippie. Besides the drugs and premarital sex, that is.”    

 

When we arrived at church, I was warmly welcomed by the other parishioners, including January and her family. Everyone asked me how my trip was, and said that the past three months hadn’t been the same without me.

The pastor, Father Montgomery, exclaimed with a bright smile, “It’s been cloudy here without your sunshine, Essie. We’re glad you’re back to shine your light once again!” 

Ironically, one of the songs that the choir sang was, “This Little Light Of Mine.” I heard Daddy’s jubilant voice resonating strong and true, just as always.

Later, though, I found myself only half-listening to Father Montgomery’s homily. The other part of me was thinking about the conversation I had with Daddy before mass. From hearing about his family, my dad became more complex to me, in a sense. For some reason, it was a strange notion that Dad had had a past before I became his daughter. I was able to see him in a new light, more similar to all of the other people in my life, but at the same time, different.  

Daddy once told me that we can keep no secrets from God, for He sees right into our souls and into every cell of our essence. But if God already knew the contents of even the deepest, darkest recesses of our hearts, then wasn’t that enough? If one could be honest about their vices and virtues and passions and desires before God, then why couldn’t one be open about them to others? Not just in my father’s case, but in the case of every human being.

I subtly looked around at the congregation. Howie Howard, a sophomore at Pleasantville High School, had tried some drugs that one of his friends had acquired. Georgia Clements, a middle-aged woman, had cheated on her husband. Marion Shellery, an older girl at Pleasantville Christian Academy, trashed my father relentlessly. And I hadn’t told Daddy that I was in a serious relationship with a boy, or at least serious for a twelve-year-old. Everyone was a sinner in one way or another, but many sought forgiveness.

I reckoned that ultimately, it was always easier to be honest with God than the rest of the world. I had been brought up to believe that God was all-powerful, but also abundantly loving and forgiving. Sometimes, society could be closed-minded, intolerant, and hostile, but God was none of those things.

They can’t see us like you can, God, I thought silently. You gave us rules to follow and told us what was right and wrong. You’re the ultimate judge. And so much of the time, you’re the only one who understands. But that’s enough. It will always be enough.                   

 

       After mass, Dad and I had brunch with the Jenkins family. I played with January and her siblings, and for a while it felt like I had never left.

January told me all the news at school, and how much everyone had missed me.

At this, I smirked. “Yeah. The teachers, maybe.”

“Essie,” January said. “I know life was hard last year, and it wasn’t fair for you. But people grow up and realize their mistakes. Trust me, everything will be fine,” she assured me. I knew that my wise friend was right. 

 

That evening, as I was packing my backpack for school the next day, I continued to bombard my dad with questions about his childhood. Half to my surprise, he didn’t hesitate in answering them.

“When you were growing up, do you think your parents ever knew?” I asked.

“Well, I think my mom had an idea that there was something different about me for a long time—she just couldn’t quite place it. But I think my dad found out soon enough that I wasn’t interested in girls. He tried to change that, though. He’d always try to set me up on dates when I was in high school. That drove me insane. My brothers did the same thing—they’d drag me to school dances and dare me to ask girls to dance with me. Sometimes I gave in, to make them stop badgering me.

“Harry and Max would call me ‘the little homo’ when Mom and Dad weren’t around. Lydia would giggle playfully and roll her eyes. Most of the time, they were joking around—or, at least, that’s what they convinced themselves. But when I got to high school, I was in for it big time!” Daddy exclaimed.

“Kids can be crueler than a pack of wolves—boys and girls both. While several of the girls were nice to me, I was nothing but a joke among others. There were a few groups of boys who’d torment me every day. They’d laugh at me for being in the glee club, and called me every profanity you can imagine. Well, you don’t know that many, thank goodness,” Dad said with a smile.

Well, I’d heard quite a few during my twelve years on this earth.

 

“Get this,” Daddy began with a smirk. “My nickname in high school was ‘the fairy prince.’ Do you know what a fairy is?” he asked me curiously.

“Well,” I said, grinning, “I know it means something other than a magical winged creature found in folklore.”

Daddy nodded. “It’s a good thing I can look back on it all and laugh,” he went on. “You wouldn’t believe some of the things that they did. Of course, I got beat up every so often. They’d leave all sorts of nasty things in my locker—dog piles, dirty underwear, fake love notes from boys I had crushes on…and even naughty pictures.”

“Oh?” I said, raising my eyebrows. I giggled. “Did you have a lot of crushes?”

“About as many as the typical teenager with raging hormones. Back then, I always tried to convince myself otherwise. I tried to notice girls, I really did. But deep down I knew that I wasn’t being honest with myself. Occasionally, I’d come home in tears, because I couldn’t deal with the jerks at school who tortured me. If my mom found me crying, she’d comfort me. But if, God forbid, my dad did, then he’d tell me to toughen up and be a man.

“One night, my mom and dad were talking about me. I only heard snippets of their conversation, but that was enough to tear me to shreds. Dad said to her, ‘There’s something not right about Shawn, and you know it.’ Then Mom told him that sure, I was different, but what did it matter? Everything was fine, and I was a wonderful son. Dad replied in a low, angry voice that she should stop coddling me and face the fact that I was nothing more than a sissy. He said, ‘I don’t know where you got the crazy idea of adopting that little pansy, but I’m gonna tell you here and now that he was never my son and never will be. He’s a disgrace to men everywhere, and yet you still think of him as your perfect little angel.’ My mother tried to protest, but after a while, she became silent, ‘cause there was nothing more she could say.

“My father was gone for the next few days, probably to a tavern or something. When he came back, he would hardly even look at me. From that point on, we pretty much ignored each other. I could handle that. Then, he went off to war, a fairly old man, and the rest, as they say, is history,” Daddy reminisced somberly. He wasn’t laughing now.

I smiled sadly. “Sometimes, in life, all you can do is hang in there and wait for the sunshine to come,” I murmured.

 

“Don’t I know it,” Daddy said. “Don’t I know it.”

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