Just a draft

I remember he would come up late at night. Ten o’clock even Eleven o’clock, his face was bright red, like that of a boiled lobster, he was in a black shirt, and jeans, just got off of work. He was a chef, still is. I jumped into his arms. I could not have been more than three years old. But, I still remember. He smelt of garlic and tasted salty when I kissed his cheek. He would smile that gapped grin of his, and I knew he would loved me.

I remember waking up and running to my parent’s room only to find my dad asleep on his right side with his a soft white blanket his squishy pillow was over his head and his arm over the pillow and the sound of a motor coming out of his nose and mouth. He snored. I jumped into to the bed, he would roll over and his breath would reek of morning. Pew! I did not care though; I loved him. I was always on his shoulders everywhere I went; mall, amusement parks or walking around the block. We were inseparable. That does not mean that I got away with stuff either. I was always in trouble for some dumb thing that I said or did. I was ornery from day one.

“Jordyn! Go sit in the middle of your room, I’ll be there in a few minutes,” he would say in a stern voice.

When those words were spoken I knew I was going to get spanked. I knew there was nothing I could say or do to try to make it better. I also knew I deserved it and I was not going to ever get spanked again for it. I would cry and be mad; there was no way I was going to talk to him now. He was the enemy. I would sit in my room hating life wanting to run away. Boy! I was a drama queen. Five minutes later I would love my daddy again. How could I not, he was the best chef I knew. The best father, even though he was strict, I could ask for.

She was jealous. She hated the relationship that I had with him. I wanted my dad not my mom. I was different from her, but that doesn’t mean I loved her any less. Still do this day there is nothing I can say or do to make her realize that I love her more than anything. She is after all my mother. A gorgeous woman; she glowed. Her face lit up every time she saw me or my brother, and even her husband. She bragged about the three of us to everyone she met, and anyone who would listen. Too bad she had to share anything I ever told her with the world too. I learned early on that I needed to have a guard up when I was around her, or she would go running her mouth. Still I loved her, until one day.

My mom split up with my dad and my world, my family was broken. Not like it wasn’t broken before but I didn’t realize it at the time. Looking back I knew my family was screwed up, even today they still are. He’d cry pleading baby I love you. She’d tell him to leave. I would cry and cry. She had lost her glow and he fell in a big tub of booze. Seven years later they’re still in that same position.

“He’s an alcoholic,” mom would say

“She’s so mean” dad would say

“You’re just like you’re father,” she’d say

I being only eleven got into the middle of it. I hated everything. The two people I loved most in this world made my life a living hell.

“You’re mean and hateful,” I would always hear from my mom. Well I thought I had a good enough reason to be mean and hateful. Unlike her I didn’t have different men coming into my family pretending like they were my ‘daddy.’ I had one daddy, and one mommy I did not need anyone else. “You need therapy,” was line she would always tell me, yet I was not the one divorcing from my husband, and potentially kids. (In case you do not know the order of importance in my mother’s life goes like this, Number 1: Herself, Number 2: Her job/persona and Number three: her husband, who is not my father. Me, I’m last.)

I felt sorry for my dad, he was my hero. Well, he was a drunken hero. One of those cowboy martyrs. He was dress in Levi’s a button up western, cowboy boots with spurs, bandana in his pocket and a ten gallon hat, strumming “Hurt” by Johnny Cash. Okay, that actually would never happen, but you get the picture. I lived with him for a year, and he would come home drunk from work. It broke my heart every time he slurred his words. He thought I would not realize he was drunk. He cried himself to sleep, I knew it.

I kept bouncing back and fourth between my mom’s house and my dad’s house. I never had a home, it was always their house. I will not lie I did work them to get my way; I was angry at them what kid wouldn’t use the divorce to their advantage. My junior year in high school I was living with my dad (at first). I got into a fabulous art class. Where my teacher, Mrs. Post, taught me that I should draw everything and write everything down in my sketchbook; I did just that. Especially the time when my dad and I got into a drunken fight, we were yelling and screaming at each other. I had told him that my mother was going to marry Leon, the redneck who had a tire shop called Pinky’s. He was infuriated. I had shut the door and since I did not have a lock I had to use my chair to block the door so he would not come in, the old school way. I drew a picture of what had happened. I was hiding behind the door; he was using every cruse word in the book had a bottle of booze in one hand, he is a whisky drinker, not to mention he had black Ray Bans sunglasses on, he is as blind as a bat. (Although it was be quite humorous to see a drunken bat flying around into building and trees.) I was angry, hurt with tears in my eyes.  I did not forgive him for a long time.

I believe through these incidents I was able to use art as an escape from the world. I am able to challenge all my emotion through my hand holding the brush and brush touching the canvas. Using every color has a different emotion or idea. Even though my father is an alcoholic and my mother is a lying drunk I am able to see the beauty in both my parents. It is strange though. My parents do not realize that my talent is a strand of anger and depression that is from both of them.

My mom will ask me to paint a picture of her. I think she would get mad if I painted a cross between Ursula, the sea witch, and a crazy broad with snakes in her hair and fire in her eyes. My mom does not always look like that. She is quite lovely when she wants to be. But why not capture her at her best, right? My dad loves the stuff I paint and draw. He loves the fact his kid is not a drunk prissy girl. He knows I can use the bad and make it a pretty cool piece of junk.

I love both my parents equally, and we have fun together. My mom and I have a ‘special time;’ we cook. My dad and I well, we talk about everything and anything: politics, art, music and religion. And both parents reflect on fun memories they had with each other; which in turn makes for killer art pieces.

I always remembered what my art teacher said in every note she would write in my sketchbook, “Keep going!” I knew it came from her heart. I knew she believed in me. And this lesson I take in every day life. Just keep going there is always a light, a goal, or a platform to reach. It is like what Maurice Freehill said, “Who is more foolish, the child afraid of the dark, or the man afraid of the light (179)?” My parents are drunks, and in a weird, twisted and psychotic way I am thankful, because I would not be the artist I am today, and I would not have learned to love my parents as deeply as I do.

 

 

must be revised

National Day of Writing.

Today is National Day of Writing. Anne Lamott author of Bird by Bird, encourages her writing students to write “three hundred words of memories of dreams or stream of consciousness on how much they hate writing (178).” 

My way of celebrating Nation Day of Writing is to write my final draft on an essay due for my English class.