emotion to present. I might have to explain how it was not just any video-game character they assigned to my father, but my favorite one, the
main one
in my world—what a coincidence. How could my dad’s arrest be both awful and hilarious at the same time? Two opposing sharp points, irreconcilable. It hurt. But it was absurd, so I could laugh.
32
T he face of Mr. Blue, West Middle School’s choir teacher, was turning purple with rage, as usual. The altos were talking and it was now the eighth time we’d gone over this section of Chicago’s “You’re the Inspiration.” He wanted us to sing the notes straight, without bending them like the singer does in the recorded version we all knew. In the soprano section I was watching the clock; soon I’d be saved from this.
“Molly?” It was Mrs. B, school counselor, come to retrieve me for my weekly session. In 1993 my seventh-grade year was launched with a hush around school I could feel—people talking, but not talking to me. The only person who approached me directly—had to, I suppose—was the counselor. I was relieved to get out of choir and walk with her through the quiet halls to her office.
“Jeez. You have so much stuff in your pockets!” She looked at the huge pockets on the baggy men’s corduroy pants I was wearing, straight from Value Village, packed with stuff. “What’s in there,” she said more seriously.
“Oh, just … lipstick, pens, compact, gum, sunglasses …” How strange to hold the attention of an adult! But now, only out of suspicion. I was embarrassed.
In her office I was supposed to be a wreck, have a breakdown, or at least cry. “What Cold Pricklies have been visiting you this week?” she asked, handing me a navy blue plastic shape with points protruding from it and googly eyes glued to its center. This was the Cold Prickly. In her lap, the Warm Fuzzy, a pink furry ball with similar eyes glued to it, waited.
“I didn’t … meet any … Cold Pricklies this week,” I responded quietly. She looked blankly at me, holding a smile, as if I had not said anything yet. I looked at the photos of her kids hung on the walls, the bowl of autumnal potpourri below, the small teddy bears. She’d always wait as long as it took until I said what she wanted to hear, I knew. Eventually I’d just offer the narrative she was looking for so I could end these sessions. But this time, I held out.
“I can’t give you a Warm Fuzzy if you don’t let go of a Cold Prickly first!” she explained cheerily. I looked at the clock. Maybe this wasn’t better than the purple face of Mr. Blue.
“OK, um. Let’s see. I feel lonely.”
“Lonely! You aren’t lonely. You have friends! Your friend Lindsey. And your mom and your sister, and me, I’m your friend! Now, see, doesn’t the thought of all your friends aroundyou give you a Warm Fuzzy?” She moved the pink creature from her lap and placed it in mine while I perfunctorily offered the Cold Prickly back.
“Do you know what
alienated
means?” I looked at the clock. “It means you feel separated from your world. And your dad, well, I imagine how upsetting it must be to learn he committed such an out-of-character crime. You are feeling alienated from him right now, your own father, the person you trusted the most—snapped!”
And that was the story. She, along with everyone else, swallowed it whole. He was presented in the news, in court, and in conversation as a meek, diligent autoworker with no record who
must have
just suddenly snapped. They turned over reasons why such a normal man might choose to commit such an out-of-character crime: gambling addiction, his hours at the plant being cut, post-traumatic stress disorder from the Vietnam War, Detroit itself. At first I wondered if they knew something I didn’t.
“No,” I said.
“No?”
“No. That isn’t how I feel. And that’s not my dad’s story.
And
I know enough about therapy to know that you’re not supposed to tell me how I
main one
in my world—what a coincidence. How could my dad’s arrest be both awful and hilarious at the same time? Two opposing sharp points, irreconcilable. It hurt. But it was absurd, so I could laugh.
32
T he face of Mr. Blue, West Middle School’s choir teacher, was turning purple with rage, as usual. The altos were talking and it was now the eighth time we’d gone over this section of Chicago’s “You’re the Inspiration.” He wanted us to sing the notes straight, without bending them like the singer does in the recorded version we all knew. In the soprano section I was watching the clock; soon I’d be saved from this.
“Molly?” It was Mrs. B, school counselor, come to retrieve me for my weekly session. In 1993 my seventh-grade year was launched with a hush around school I could feel—people talking, but not talking to me. The only person who approached me directly—had to, I suppose—was the counselor. I was relieved to get out of choir and walk with her through the quiet halls to her office.
“Jeez. You have so much stuff in your pockets!” She looked at the huge pockets on the baggy men’s corduroy pants I was wearing, straight from Value Village, packed with stuff. “What’s in there,” she said more seriously.
“Oh, just … lipstick, pens, compact, gum, sunglasses …” How strange to hold the attention of an adult! But now, only out of suspicion. I was embarrassed.
In her office I was supposed to be a wreck, have a breakdown, or at least cry. “What Cold Pricklies have been visiting you this week?” she asked, handing me a navy blue plastic shape with points protruding from it and googly eyes glued to its center. This was the Cold Prickly. In her lap, the Warm Fuzzy, a pink furry ball with similar eyes glued to it, waited.
“I didn’t … meet any … Cold Pricklies this week,” I responded quietly. She looked blankly at me, holding a smile, as if I had not said anything yet. I looked at the photos of her kids hung on the walls, the bowl of autumnal potpourri below, the small teddy bears. She’d always wait as long as it took until I said what she wanted to hear, I knew. Eventually I’d just offer the narrative she was looking for so I could end these sessions. But this time, I held out.
“I can’t give you a Warm Fuzzy if you don’t let go of a Cold Prickly first!” she explained cheerily. I looked at the clock. Maybe this wasn’t better than the purple face of Mr. Blue.
“OK, um. Let’s see. I feel lonely.”
“Lonely! You aren’t lonely. You have friends! Your friend Lindsey. And your mom and your sister, and me, I’m your friend! Now, see, doesn’t the thought of all your friends aroundyou give you a Warm Fuzzy?” She moved the pink creature from her lap and placed it in mine while I perfunctorily offered the Cold Prickly back.
“Do you know what
alienated
means?” I looked at the clock. “It means you feel separated from your world. And your dad, well, I imagine how upsetting it must be to learn he committed such an out-of-character crime. You are feeling alienated from him right now, your own father, the person you trusted the most—snapped!”
And that was the story. She, along with everyone else, swallowed it whole. He was presented in the news, in court, and in conversation as a meek, diligent autoworker with no record who
must have
just suddenly snapped. They turned over reasons why such a normal man might choose to commit such an out-of-character crime: gambling addiction, his hours at the plant being cut, post-traumatic stress disorder from the Vietnam War, Detroit itself. At first I wondered if they knew something I didn’t.
“No,” I said.
“No?”
“No. That isn’t how I feel. And that’s not my dad’s story.
And
I know enough about therapy to know that you’re not supposed to tell me how I
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