Contact us at: whispernthunder1@gmail.comA-Muse, Alteration, Altercation, Alliteration
~ Orannhawk
My dad liked a few of my boyfriends, especially
the ones who took pride in caring for their cars
or trucks.He tolerated others, and made it
abundantly clear to my ex what he would be
facing if he ever came near me again. I still laugh
about a statement he made to one of the good
ones, who shared it with me later over dinner.
According to my him, my dad stated “Keep an
eye on her, she’s a little feral.” I freely admit, it
was a good assessment then, and now.
Not too long ago, an older individual asked about my hair. Not about the length, as if that would matter. He wanted to know what my dad would have thought of the color. The question amused me, however the tone of his words felt out of place. My dad never had much to say about my hair, other than to keep it out of my face when I was working alongside him or cooking. Most of the time it was braided or in a pony so it wasn’t an issue.
My dad never questioned my tattoos either, likely because he was used to the temporary ones that I used off and on while I saved for the real deal. He saw some of my ink before he left for the stars, and it didn’t matter to him. He was accustomed to streaks of color in my hair, and I drew on everything even as a kid, so I doubt that my tattoos came as a surprise. Actually, the things I expected to irritate the fire out of him, simply didn’t.
He watched with amusement when I sat in the den with wooden clothespins dangling on my ear lobes, a lackluster attempt at numbing them. He shook his head as my brother-in-law sanitized a large needle with a lighter, then in alcohol, before gripping it with a pair of pliers, and piercing my ears, not once, but on two occasions. The third piercing and later the upper helix were done in a salon. He never said a word about the fingernail piercing I had years ago, featuring two tiny silver hoops and a miniature dolphin
hanging like ornaments from my pinkie nail. So why would my hair color matter anyway? And why was this person so interested in my dad’s reactions?
The individual went on to say that he “knew” my dad was a hard man, because he had dealt with him before. His tone triggered a memory of comments he made to my dad years ago, regarding an elderly man, who, at that time, was sitting under the shade tree outside, holding my six month old baby, softly humming as my son held onto his wrinkled hand. The elder was family. His color and race didn’t matter, he was family and we loved him. He was in my dad’s shop most days, sometimes in the garden tending to
the plants, eating lunch with us, and playing with my son. My little one took naps on his shoulder, and as a toddler, loved turning the handmade copper rings round and round on his old calloused fingers.
I felt my dad’s raging anger when his silence echoed through the air, vibrating. The individual rambled on, reprimanding me for the courtesy call I made weeks before, reminding him of his obligation to pay his bill and pick up the repaired small engine in under thirty days or it would be sold for the parts. Once again ignoring the same notice posted clearly in the shop and on the work order. He took it a step farther with
discriminatory words directed at me, and the family member holding my child. My dad made it clear that he was not welcome in his shop anymore, and by his signature on the work order, he knew he had ample time to pay his bill, and pick up his property before it was sold for parts. The individual made his choices then, yet close to twenty years after my dad walked on, he was still lamenting over his ‘loss’ and how he should have been notified that the shop was closed so he could be compensated.
It’s something that we face all the time. Although it is not based solely on the current climate, it has amplified the overt actions of hate, racism, inequality and attacks; catapulting the country into a state of hyperawareness of systemic genocide, as if we weren’t already aware. Historically, we know this. What is even more shocking to me now is the realization that people I have known for years and once trusted, are opposed to freedom and with their choices, embracing the racist chaos.
That unwarranted conversation triggered random memories, revealing his sense of entitlement, racism and misogynistic beliefs. I ignored his ridiculous remarks that my long hair, and the audacious color (his words), along with his opinion that my tattoos were pure evil.
There are times when calm, rational discussions are warranted, and other moments when you have to look at the bubble of hot air surrounding a person and move on. Being the feral one that I am, more times than not, I simply smile and end the conversation with four words.
“Have the day you deserve.”