No dinner Thursday July 6, 2006, 5 comments

In the end it wasn’t so bad.

I arrived home much later than I should have. Amy had walked me to within two houses of home, then skipped off down a pedestrian pathway after telling me she’d see me one day after school. I opened the door, with expectations of all hell.

Instead I was met by my concerned sister who fretted and flitted around, cleaning my cuts and even washing my jacket, which I had missed with the blood but not the vomit.

She was full of questions, but I was empty of answers. If there was one thing that my short but all too eventful life had taught me, it was that in moments of difficulty, we were all alone. I couldn’t tell who had beat me.

Even when my parents got home hours later I was silent. My mother worried over the cut on my temple and the purple blossoms of bruise on my chest, becoming more and more angry that I wouldn’t talk.

My father held the broken corpse of my guitar in his hands, and complained about violence inherent to the system, how criminals were glorified and victims marginalized. He almost foamed at the mouth when he got to the part about victims aiding and abetting the criminals by not talking.

It had only taken them ten minutes to forget that I was the one who had been hurt in all of this. I timed it on the kitchen clock.

Eventually they sent me to bed, even though I hadn’t had dinner. Being sent to bed without dinner was a standard punishment in our house. I doubted they had noted the irony.


Comments

el tigra Saturday July 8, 2006


Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone;
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.

– Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Daniel Tuesday July 11, 2006


I’ve let myself be led into the belief or rough intuition that Canada is utterly idyllic, peaceful, and scarily nice. It shouldn’t be, but it’s odd to hear about this sort of abuse, and odder yet that there is an environment of violence heavy enough to inspire your father’s tirade.

As if Canadians developed some minute shift in the impedance of their neurons from which a wholly different human nature emerged. As if Canadians were expatriates of the animal kingdom, leaving behind the base and enjoying the sublime. A bit myopic, I’d say. I’m not the only one, though, to wit: “We’re like Americans, but without guns.”

el tigra Tuesday July 11, 2006


Except that the Canadians have more guns…

Adrian Tuesday July 11, 2006


“We’re like Americans.”

Period.

deep thought for the day Sunday July 16, 2006


minus half as many trailer parks, inbred love affairs, and what the hell…Dr. Phil

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