(New beginning)
I suppose every young person goes through a time of silence, a time in his or her life when communication between child and parent is virtually impossible, and never pleasant. For most of my adolescence, my silence was directed towards my dad. I have tried to figure out how it happened, to sift through my shoebox of memories and pick out the one with the caption, "And here, the silence began." I have imagined that the still-frame would depict a dramatic scene of dissension between my dad and I, but the best I can do is trace it back to the first night I said, "Shit."
In true loyalty to the immature child who still lives in some corner of my body (probably behind my spleen), I have tried to figure out who taught me the word, and thus, blame all of the subsequent difficulties on the perpetrator. I have taken myself back to the second grade, placed myself at the desk I shared with Aaron Kiehler during math, and strained to hear him utter it. To my frustration, it appears that Aaron's second-grade mouth was not as bold as his high-school mouth. So I sit patiently in front of the television at age five and sneak peeks at such violent, and therefore banned, programs as The Power Rangers. Still, no luck. The psychological community (the “community” being my roommate, Erica, who happens to be a fourth-year psych student) says that our minds can invent memories so vivid and realistic that we are convinced of their veracity; I find even this phenomenon failing me. I cannot remember the first time I heard someone utter the word.
* * *I suppose every young person goes through a time of silence, a time in his or her life when communication between child and parent is virtually impossible, and never pleasant. For most of my adolescence, my silence was directed towards my dad. I have tried to figure out how it happened, to sift through my shoebox of memories and pick out the one with the caption, "And here, the silence began." I have imagined that the still-frame would depict a dramatic scene of dissension between my dad and I, but the best I can do is trace it back to the first night I said, "Shit."
* * *
In true loyalty to the immature child who still lives in some corner of my body (probably behind my spleen), I have tried to figure out who taught me the word, and thus, blame all of the subsequent difficulties on the perpetrator. I have taken myself back to the second grade, placed myself at the desk I shared with Aaron Kiehler during math, and strained to hear him utter it. To my frustration, it appears that Aaron's second-grade mouth was not as bold as his high-school mouth. So I sit patiently in front of the television at age five and sneak peeks at such violent, and therefore banned, programs as The Power Rangers. Still, no luck. The psychological community (the “community” being my roommate, Erica, who happens to be a fourth-year psych student) says that our minds can invent memories so vivid and realistic that we are convinced of their veracity; I find even this phenomenon failing me. I cannot remember the first time I heard someone utter the word.
Over time, I learned not to let my dad hear me say a lot of things; my silence was not limited to the use of dirty words, which, I can assure you, I continued to use like my new favorite toy. As a third grader, I delighted in swearing in front of my best friends, mixing these shiny, new words in with the sand I threw around on the playground. I felt daring, and somehow, disillusioned with the secrets adults kept from us.
Yet, as I grew out of that phase, the list of things I could not say to my dad grew longer. Through most of elementary school, the list mostly consisted of the names of boys I liked (Nick, Adam, Aaron Kiehler), the mean things I may have done to my classmates (or had done to me), and, in the case that we were in the car, the fact that I had to pee (he always tried to hit potholes if I divulged this information). By the time I reached junior high, the list included my true feelings about religious faith.
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