From Me to You

You taught me that one day I would climb high enough up into the sky to meet you, sit with you, and look down at the rest of the world--together.

Well, I guess you didn’t say it—not in so many words… but you did mean it at me. I think. It’s harder to understand the lessons you taught in hindsight, when in the moment they were always so clear and precise, just like you.

Sometimes, when I’m sitting at a table alone, I remember how motion sick you used to get on train rides when I was young. The sway would make your head hurt and your stomach twirl. You'd close your eyes, try and hide it from me, shifting your body to the side like a lopsided Jenga about to fall over. Do you remember all the times I asked you what was wrong? I do. You always lied and said you were fine, then nursed a bottle of tonic water until we got to Alberta, where you jumped out and kissed the ground in thankfulness. It was like you had found religion.

One hundred lessons from my father. This was the ambitious title to a book I never wrote but always hoped to. I imagined it would contain every bit of knowledge you taught me, both in the words you said and those you didn’t--especially those you didn't. I thought that if I wrote everything down, it would make sense, the idea’s you gave me that I nurtured and turned into the pathways through the thicket of the rest of my life…Now, I think if I wrote that book it would be much too confusing for any contemporary reader to trudge through. So, I have decided to write down just three: Three lessons you gave me, to give back to you here--in this letter—to say thank you for everything:

(These are not ranked chronologically)

The first thing you taught me was how to do long division. You sat me down at your house on one of the few weekends we spent together and took out a long sheet of paper; then you drew from the top down how exactly to figure out how many times one little number fit into a big one. I was in awe of you that day.

The second thing you taught me was how to tie a knot. You showed me how to tie a knot idly, finger and thumb pinching the drawstrings of your hoodie like a magicians wand, swooping one over the other to create a bow out of limp cotton. So, alone I copied your movements over and over again until I could do it myself, presenting my masterpiece to you in triumph a week later. You smiled like you couldn’t believe my genius. Your smile showed me that patience and diligence always pays off.

Thirdly, you taught me how to believe in myself when I was eight and my school cast my best-friend for the role of Belle in the school play just because she looked like her. My little black face cried clear tears for a whole afternoon—I had practiced my lines so precisely that when I went into audition my voice came out as fast and strong as the lyrics to an Eminem song, but I killed it—I knew I had killed it. Fucking Rebecca couldn’t even hold a tune, she was just a pale brunette with clean clothes. I wanted the role so badly I quit the play and my assigned role as narrator right after I found out. You picked me up, I explained what happened. I was ashamed at having quit even though I ultimately wanted the lead role. You asked me if I wanted to stay in the play—I did, so you said “go back inside and tell them you’re sorry and want to be a narrator, remember Giselle you can always shine no matter where you are.” So I did, and years later thank you for it. My pride has always been easy to wound, but you taught me that it’s okay to be hotheaded sometimes, “as long as you make up for it after, and mean it,” you'd say.

Now I have to stop. Because I have lied.

I know you know this because you never sat me on your lap, or rode with me on a train. You never consoled me after a bad day at school, because you never picked me up from it. These are the things I always wished to have from you, patience, acceptance, encouragement; life lessons that would serve me forever. Or, maybe I did get them, in ways I can't understand-- but, the true lessons you taught me as a father were these:

You taught me to always hold rage. Like a pit of fire inside of your body you used it to justify your actions when you were violent, and to hold over my head when you weren’t. You showed me that rage is like a generator—you can go for days living off of it in a dessert. Just rage and the bodies of the people you should love, to burn for kindling.

You taught me to keep my enemy close, and that I am my own worst enemy. There is something wrong with me, you preached. There is something inside of me, about me, of me, that needs to be "fixed". “Clean,” you told me—"Clean your body, your house, the floors, the walls. Make sure your teeth are so clean your gums bleed, make sure your hair is so tight your braids fall off—because there is something so wrong with you, not even bleach could get it off."

And finally, you taught me acceptance. You taught me that no matter how badly someone hurts you it is never your fault for being hurt. It is not my fault you hurt me and planted seeds of doubt inside of my mind, leading me to repeat your behaviours like two sick twin mimes caught in separate invisible OCD boxes. It isn’t my fault that the only thing you really taught me was long division. It isn’t my fault you wont ever call me by my chosen name, you wont call me Giselle. You have my other name tattoo’d on your arm, and That Isn’t My Fault. I don't think much of it is your fault either.

Maybe one day I will write my version of a burn book: 100 Lessons My Father Never Taught Me; that I had to teach myself—but it too would be a lie. Because although you weren’t my father I did have someone there, taking care of me and teaching me to tie knots. Mom was my Dad and you were a lamp on a side table I should have donated when I was sixteen.

So, in summation, thank you for my ability to discern bullshit and curb abuse. I am not a body to be hurt, or a mind to be twisted. I am myself and you are yourself. We owe each other nothing, I don't need an apology from you, you wont get one from me. After all, my pride has always been a quality Mom says came from you; so I guess that is the first of the 100 Lessons you taught me.

From me to You.