In His Eyes there is Silence

In His Eyes There is Silence

Finding my voice in a crowd

 

 I stared as my father took his seat at the head of the conference table. He observed those who sat around him with hard brown eyes, his face showing no emotion. With a slight raise of his hand the room became quiet. While he was discussing the future of the Postal Inspection Service with his other co- workers, I sat in a corner wondering what it would be like to have his manner.

            My father grew up in Boston in a house with his mother, brothers and sisters. His father was a hard worker who spent very little time with the family.  My father became independent very quickly. Sometimes he was left behind to watch his brothers and sisters because he was the trusted one. Although he missed being cradled in his mother’s warm embrace he also knew that the world was made to explore. The city, he would tell me through stories when I was young, was a cruel place when he was growing up.

The most memorable story is about one of his sisters. While growing-up his sister and he had to share a pair of gloves while walking to school. It was a cold day in winter as they walked side by side together, one hand in a pocket, the other in one of the gloves. They had to walk close to one another or the glove would slide from the clip that ensured they remained a pair. He always walked on the outside, to make sure no harm came to her.

Now I am the one he walks on the outside to protect. I am also the one he is trying to train to stay out of mother’s warm embrace. My father wants me to welcome the world and see what it has to offer.

However, there are many differences between him and me. He has found his voice amongst a crowd of many while I am still struggling to get mine out there for everyone to hear.

At the end of every term, my family gathers around the table to read what each teacher has to say regarding my progress. Every time it will read, she is an excellent student to have in class but she needs to speak up more. After reading this statement from more than one teacher, my father looks at me, his eyes now an intense darker brown, still showing no expression. He simply turns the page to read on, leaving me lost and wondering when I will finally get rid of this comment.

The chance came in my 11^th grade play, Picasso at the Lapin Agile. I got the role of Gaston, an old sex-deprived man. I was surprised I got this role until I actually started acting on stage, finding the words flowing out of my mouth. Finally, I thought, I had found my voice and could speak to the many people who had yet to hear what I had to offer.

Then it was time for my parents to see the play.  I remember staring into the audience with my opening line, searching for the man that I was trying to impress. Through a sea of people I saw him: arms crossed, staring at the stage, waiting for something to catch his interest. I played my part and made sure that I was loud enough for everyone to hear, always glancing at him to make sure he heard how loud I could be.

When the play finally ended I joined the audience, beaming with delight as people complimented me on a “great job!”  Our eyes met as my father walked down the steps to greet me.   Flowers were given from my mother to me for a job well done. I thought I had finally done it, until my Spanish teacher came down and patted me on the shoulder and said, “Now why can’t you speak that loud in class?” My shoulders sank. The short connection between my father and me disappeared almost as suddenly as it had come. After saying our goodbyes, my parents left. My boyfriend came up behind me and pulled me into a warm embrace, telling me I did great. This comment was made by many of my friends and fellow students as I went back up to my dorm room. However, I felt a slight emptiness in my heart knowing that once again I would fall back into the shell that I had thought I had escaped from that very night.

Recently, my father finally broke out into a full smile because I was able to conquer my fear of speaking. It was just this summer while we were sitting in our hot Honda car. One of my hands was folded in my lap covering a check I had to deposit in the bank. Minutes past, but it seemed like an hour as we were sitting in the car outside the bank waiting to deposit this check. Finally, my father checked his watch. I knew what he expected of me. He was expecting me to go into the bank and deposit my check. I was just prolonging the inevitable, wishing I had never agreed to leave the safety of my home and my mother’s warm embrace.

     Struggling, I entered the bank, preparing to face my fear once more. No one was around except for the teller who seemed to be eyeing me from afar. I approached the counter, peeking over because I wasn’t tall enough to see everything clearly. The word, “deposit” slipped its way through my quivering lips. The lady nodded and took the check and added it to my bank account. I returned to the hot Honda feeling a sense of pride. My father turned to me with a smile slowly making its way across his face. Almost in a teasing voice, he said, Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?

Reviews

[Dalebear]

Good write