Photo by Jason Leung on Unsplash
1.20.25 I always wanted to be a baby boomer. I missed being a boomer by about one year. My whole life is a series of misses. But to be a baby boomer…that could have solved all of my problems. Boomers are broadly accepted as the post-WW II behemoth generation of achievers with (quoting AI here): a strong work ethic, optimism, focus on personal achievement, and involvement in social movements. Instead, I was born into a silenced cohort of one. For many years, I thought my name was Shut Up. It was shut up this and shut up that all day, every day. When I asked my driven father a question, his harsh retort was invariably: “Shut up." A typical exchange on a Saturday morning: Me (age 7): Daddy, can we go to the park? Father (looking at a document on his desk): Shut up. Or me at a public event: Daddy, can I have ice cream? Father (turns for one tenth of a second in my direction whilst in conversation with someone important): Shut up and go find your brother. I was an inconvenience to him, an interrupter. If I popped up into his line of vision, he would say: Oh, it’s you again, what do you want? Nothing, I would respond, eyes downcast, swallowing my words, wants, dreams. I stayed that way most of my life. Silent Char. Only our dog Freckles, the Springer spaniel with his bloodshot eyes, listened. Those eyes said everything. They said, I love you no matter what, Silent Char. When Freckles wasn't running away to impregnate one of the neighbors' dogs, he was snuggling with me on the kitchen floor (linoleum, cold), with my arms wrapped around his tummy, We inhaled and exhaled together, Freckles having conquered the world (or at least the dogs on the block), me having remained silent and stuck. Fear and anxiety pinned me in place. My only saving grace came in adolescence. When my peers were breaking out from head to toe with pimples, my skin was flawless. No acne whatsoever. My scars were on the inside. In all the years that my father was in my life, he never called, sent a card or gave me a gift. On Sundays, his one day off a week, he had a standard (some would say rigid) routine. He got up early, watered the garden, the sidewalk, the outdoor furniture. He then made himself lunch, washed the dishes and locked himself in his study for the rest of the day. He emerged for dinner, ate without engaging us in conversation, then returned to his study. He did not need a Do Not Disturb sign on his door, His demeanor said it all: Do not disturb me, you are a hindrance. I do not want you. You are a mistake. Try not to be seen and never heard. I took that ball and ran with it—straight into isolation, drugs, addiction, and more silence—a generation of one (but not done).
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