Its your eyes

“It’s your eyes, those beautiful big brown eyes, with that charm and mystery. Everybody wants to know what is behind them.” That’s what my grandmother once told me.

The same eyes that were lit by a TV screen. Watching the television, alone on the burgundy leather couch, stuffing my mouth with chips, cupcakes, and ice cream, that is what I remember most about my childhood.

I loved watching the television; I guess one reason was because it was quiet and lonely without it.

But the main reason I love to watching it, I guess I love being able to feel as if I was somewhere else.

Ever since I could imagine I loved movies, some of my favorites had always been Cinderella and Peter Pan. I fell in love with the magic, the dream, the way movies could take me to another world like Neverland.   I’ve always dream to be in the movies, to go to my own Neverland.

My mother was sick. She spent a lot of time in her bed. I can’t blame her, I know she wanted better for me, I know she tried, to be strong, but couldn’t. I never minded fetching her food, drinks, or medince. It was the only way I thought I could heal her.

And my father, I never really knew where he was; just that he wasn’t home, with me.

 He came in and out of my life. It was like watching a rerun. He would try to come back, saying he changed, he manipulated us into thinking we could be a “normal happy family”. Then abandoned us once again, with hard hearts. From him I learned I could not trust people, and the more you love someone, the more they will break your heart. The same old song and dance that I wish would just go off the air completely.

So that’s why I was left to feed myself and left to find my own way of comfort.

I felt this need to eat; I felt I had the burning sweet tooth, I felt sweets would make me feel better. And they did when watching a movie while eating cookies; I felt at peace, I felt comforted.

I remember years ago the last birthday card I ever got from him. I was home alone getting the mail, it’s usually all for my mom so I usually don’t look at it. But there was a paper with my name on it that caught my eye. I looked on the corner and saw his name. I didn’t know what he could want with me; it had a year since he cut me out of his life. I hated that he once again, out of the blue was trying to be my father, but my curiously led me to open it. It was a cheap, standard “happy birthday card”. Balloons on the cover, white on the inside, with “happy birthday” printed not written. There was nothing written, not even a signature. A slightly crumbed twenty dollar attached to it.

Is this all?

Is this all he gives his first born, his baby girl?

Is this all I’m worth to him?

I was so angry.

Why is it that when I just start to feel good about myself, he pops up?

I looked at that with the hateful, resentful, rebellious blood in me. I wanted to destroy it. I wanted to burn this symbol of his cold heart, and I did. I took a grill lighter from the kitchen dour, slammed the card in the kitchen sink. And watched the flames, takeover the thoughtless card turning into ash. After a point, I turned on the water to put the fire out, and cleaned the dust up. I grabbed a snack and watched TV. I didn’t tell my mom, I thought it hurt her and she would think I was crazy for burning it. 

My mom and my grandma tell me he was a good father. My grandma told me that when I was a baby and I had no hair, and when people used to call me a boy my father would say “she’s my daughter and she’s beautiful”

That may be true, he may have been a good dad, but I can’t remember him that way.

I remember the weekends I used to spend him, were the ones that I became invisible, staying at my dad’s girlfriend’s house. You would think him would spent the three days he had with me, with me but no. I was spending time watching TV in some strange home, with people, I didn’t know. My father acted right at home, he hardy even acknowledged my discomfort. I wasn’t sure how to feel about his girlfriend Cindy, she seemed nice but Cindy was at every meal, activity, and car ride. Even if she wasn’t there in body, he would texting her all the time. I remember going to a baseball game with him, well with his body but his eyes were on that stupid blackberry. I wanted to throw that thing into the field.

When I tried to say something about it he would say “stop being a spoiled brat” Out of all the things I have been called in my life that is the one that hurts the most because it was from MY DAD the man that was supposed to love me, the man was supposed to protect me, the man that supposed to be my male role model. 

I remember that one night driving to Cindy’s house. When I try to express that I felt he paid more attention to her than us, and I asked who he loved more. I remember him turning to me, stopping the car by some gas station. I remember him saying to me “If you can’t accept my relationship, then get out of my car.” I remember the shock and fear. Those words have repeated my head millions of times over the years.

Was he serious?

Would he really do that?

After a frozen silence, he put the car back in drive. He didn’t say anything else, but I guess that answered my question.

I remember one night that defined my relationship with Cindy, and she thought of me.

I don’t remember what I was upset about, something my father had said or something he had done, I don’t remember. All I remember is that I was mad and I wanted to talk to MY FATHER. That was during a time when I still had his phone number, so called him, MY FATHER. But Cindy answered the phone.

“Hey can you put my dad on the phone?” I asked angrily, apparently with an “attitude” in my voice.

“You can’t talk to me with an attitude like that. You need to respect me, I am going to be you stepmother” she yelled.

I couldn’t believe that she was trying to start a fight with me, now another thing I wanted to talk to my dad about.

  “Okay whatever; just put my dad the phone” I said

“No, you are not going to talk to me like that, I’m your stepmother”

As I said before I was already anger, and she just added to the fire.

“Okay whatever, just put my dad the phone” I said trying to stay calm.

“No. I’m not going to get him, when you’re disrespecting me, you brat. You and your bipolar b***h mother can’t talk to you me that.”

How dare she?

Why can’t she just stop and let me talk to MY DAD?

That was it, she could call me brat or whatever, but she had NO RIGHT to bring my mother into it. My mother was right beside to me; I knew she had heard everything. My anger was fired up.

“Don’t call my mother that, this is between you and me, all I’m asking is for my dad” I yelled. I wanted to scream at her more, but I started crying.

Why does this have to be so hard?

Dose he hear her talking to me like this?

My mother could see me crying and losing my breath. She took the phone.

“Cindy I don’t care who you think you are, but you can’t talked to my child like that, just let her talk to Ricky, you’re not his mother.” My mom told her.

“No, I’m not his mother, she left”

Now, I must tell the truth behind that.  My grandparents were married 43 years until they got divorce, after the divorce my grandmother moved in and married one of my grandparent’s good friends. But even if it sounds bad, she still had NO RIGHT to talk about MY GRANDMOTHER.

My mother went upstairs, telling me she needed to talk to her alone. I wasn’t clear what more Cindy said.

 

But I have already made up my mind of her being a big b***h that must feel threatened by me. Threatened that I was more important to him than her?

Threatened that he could have loved me more than her?

Why else would she refuse me?

  A year after, I remember a day when I was in the 8^th grade. My life was just starting to turn around. I was eating better. I was writing a book with a friend of mine. I was doing better in school. In fact that was the day I had gotten an A on my algebra test, I was so excited, and I couldn’t wait to tell my mom. I walked from the bus stop laughing about the crazy things my friends do, I saw a white SUV, and I didn’t know anybody who had that kind of car off hand. I walked into the house and before I could put my bag down, I saw him… my dad walking towards me, my mom standing behind him “Desirae”.

You know over the years I have imagined want the things I would yell at him, I want to release my anger, and I want to make him cry like he made me cry. But seeing him in front of me…I felt small, I was right back to that little girl, with so much pain. My confidence just dropped. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t breathe.

I couldn’t stand looking him, looking at the blue eyes behind my deepest scar.  I ran back outside,

I sat down in the grass on the front lawn and called my mom

“Hi” she said.

“What the hell?”

“Desirae come back inside”

“Not while he is in there, why is he here?”

“Sweetie, come inside so we can talk”

“Not while he is in there”

“I’ll come outside”

My mom walked outside, and stood in front of me

“What going on? Why is he here?”

My mother started to cry

“I still do love him. He came to me wanting to work things out.”

“Mommy he hurt us”

“That was because of her, he’s not with her anyone”

I was so mad at my mom.

Why does she keep letting him back into our lives? How could she do this to me? How could she do this to her heart?

She was making a big dinner, which was very rare; I was forced to stay in the kitchen, with them.

What could I have to say to him? What could I talk to him about?  To the man who left his family, the father that had disappeared from my life?

He was doing it again, I thought looking at them cooking, talking, and laughing together. He is sweet talking, acting nice, joking around like nothing was wrong.

We ate at the fancy dining room table that we only really use for thanksgiving; we used the good plate too. It was like they were trying to act like a perfect family, who ate home cooked meals together at the table. A family who are close-knit, a family we will never be.

I couldn’t stand it, were we really doing this.

“Are we not going to talk about it?” I exploded

“What do you have to talk about?” he said

 

My mom looked at me mad. “Can we just I have nice dinner?”

“No, I think we both need an explanation, why he keeps coming in and out, why he let that woman say those things, about you and grandma”

  He look at me confused, “What?”

I took a breath, trying to hold back my angry tears, “I was trying to call you…” I told about the phone call and the texts I’ve been getting too. He acted angry at her. He said he didn’t know anything about. He said she shouldn’t have talked about his mother and my mother like that. He acted like he cared about us; I wanted to believe it was real.

I let that needy little girl be put under the spell.

I wanted to believe we were rebuilding our family.

When he left our house late that night, I ran to my room, slammed the door, and turned my TV on.

There has got to be something on TV, to take me to Neverland

I got out my secret stash of candy. The tears started coming, and the sweetness of chocolate eased my mind.

How could I trust my dad to come back?

How could I trust my mom not to take him back?

I knew that he was going to disappear again, it was a re run. I don’t know what happened; just that he went to her.   

I went back to my old habits, watching the television, alone, stuffing my mouth with chips, cupcakes, and ice cream.

When I look in the mirror, on the surface I see my mommy, her thick curly brown hair, Persian eye brows, and of course her brown eyes.

But past the brown eyes, I see my dad’s hoover stubborn temper. I see my dad’s sense of humor. I see a heart with distrust, unfaithfulness, coldness.  

I remember a time when my little brother Andrew was running around doing something crazy, I got annoyed. I pulled him back by his neck and started yelling at him. Then I realized the way my hand was positioned on his neck.

It came to me, when I was little my dad would grab me by the neck and pulling back to yelling me about something. I remember feeling the hand position, tight on my neck and the fear in the touch.   

And here I was doing it to Andrew, it scared me. I really never wanted to hurt my brother; I just did it without thinking.

Below the surface I saw my father’s characteristics, it scares me because I never want to hurt anyone the way he did. I would never want to put my child though that. I would never want to put someone who loved me enough to marry me though that pain.

I fear that if I make a commitment, a promise, that I’ll beak it and break some incent person’s heart

I fear that if I trust and fall in love with someone they’re going to leave me.

As I said before I can never tell my father my feelings face to face. That is the other thing I love about acting, on a stage I can yell and scream. I remember this scene I did in one my drama class; it was me getting into a fight with this girl Brooke. I used my anger.

My teacher said “That’s amazing! It looked like you were at each other throats. It seemed like you were really angry. Great Job!”

That’s when found that acting could be my Neverland or at least a perfect hiding place. Getting to hide behind a character, like the way I want to hide from empty promises.

I act beautiful so that people don’t know that I’m ugly. I act strong so people don’t know that I’m weak.

I’m scared to trust. I’m scared to open up. I’m scared to love. I’m scared of being taken advantage of, getting my heart broken, and unleashing the Ricky Hoover inside of me.

I’m scared to let anybody see behind these beautiful big brown eyes.