Status: Updates every other day.
Keeping On
Guts
When I turned ten, my dad had officially became okay with letting me stay home alone after school, instead of staying at Tegan’s house until he came home from work. His shifts ended at around four-thirty, anyway, and I probably wouldn’t burn the house down in that time.
So on most days, I would sit at the kitchen counter and do my homework by myself so that I could get it out of the way as soon as I could. I kept my calculator handy for my math homework, a glass of water to the side, and an apple in my free hand to munch on. It got pretty quiet in the house by myself, so sometimes I would turn on my CD player and listen to the homemade mixes I burned on the computer. (…They weren’t always made in a legal fashion.)
And my dad would come home at around five, ask me how my day was, ask how my homework was going, and then he’d cook dinner while I sat in the living room and doodled. I could draw certain things without having to look at guides at that point, and for the rest, I tried to draw from life. That was what all the books told me to do, anyway.
There was one day that I finished my homework early – at around four, I closed my math book triumphantly and decided that I’d spend my extra time making something out of Legos.
I had a big box of them underneath my bed, just spare blocks for when I felt like doing something in 3D. That day, I felt like making a little house, and that’s exactly what I started to do when I sat down at the counter with the plastic tub on the edge. I laid a foundation, and then I begun to build walls, along with a garage and a back porch.
Honestly, it was looking pretty good, too. I didn’t know anything about architecture or houses, but the bricks were starting to make something that almost looked habitable. Though, after a little while, I noticed that I was a bit thirsty, so I jumped down from my seat and did what any dehydrated ten-year-old would do – get a glass of water.
I probably should’ve watched my elbows, knowing how I was always bound to be the tallest kid in my class, and before I could get a grip on my own mistake, the bucket of Legos had tumbled off the edge of the counter and hit the floor.
The blocks hit the linoleum like tiny pieces of shattered glass, spattering everywhere – they bounced back up and scraped my shins, and some even flew clear across the living room!
And I stood there for a few seconds. There wasn’t anything I could do. It was my fault, I knew it, and there would be consequences.
Suddenly, the front door opened and my dad entered the house after an exhausting day at work, judging from the bags under his eyes and the oil caked underneath his hangnails.
Just like me, he was quiet.
He looked at the floor around my feet. He caught sight of the little plastic bricks that would take ages to wrangle up. And then, he closed his eyes and sighed for a long time.
“Oshie,” he began, his voice low and grave, “you cannot be making these messes in this house. I have told you not to put your Legos on the counter, and do you listen to me?!”
When he got louder, I started to flinch. I’d have given anything to be small.
“No, you do not! And then this happens! Tú me sacas el monstruo en mi sometimes!”
The phrase seemed to echo throughout the empty house. They bounced off all of the Legos and stung my eardrums, driving me further into myself. All I could do was stand in bewilderment and shock at what he’d just said to me – I brought out the monster in him. I didn’t even think my dad had a monster in him.
I must’ve looked pretty goggle-eyed and terrified, because he then turned on a dime.
As if he became a completely different person from the one who just screamed at me, he darted over and got on his knees again, despite me getting taller and taller by the day when he did that. His deep brown eyes catching the reflection of the late afternoon sun, he looked up into mine and seemed to see somebody else alongside me.
“No no no no, I did not mean that, I did not mean to say that,” he blurted as he grabbed my left arm. “Mijo, I am sorry, I did not mean to yell.” Pressing his lips together, he squeezed.
I had no idea what to say to all of that.
“Oshie, are you okay? Lo siento, I promise I didn’t mean…I was angry, I had a tough day. I should never take it out on you, mijo.”
I just nodded along and stared at the area between his eyes. The demeanor in his face had changed too rapidly for me to understand it at first.
Dad took my hand and then said, “I promise, I will try not to yell at you like that again. Accidents happen, I know you did not mean to do this. Just try to be more careful next time, okay?”
“Okay,” I warbled.
He cocked his eyebrow for a moment, but it melted away from his face again. Emotions could be temporary, after all. My dad liked to wear masks sometimes, and negativity could seep out at the wrong moment. It didn’t happen very often, though. He was always good at looking at potential bright sides, making people happy.
So on most days, I would sit at the kitchen counter and do my homework by myself so that I could get it out of the way as soon as I could. I kept my calculator handy for my math homework, a glass of water to the side, and an apple in my free hand to munch on. It got pretty quiet in the house by myself, so sometimes I would turn on my CD player and listen to the homemade mixes I burned on the computer. (…They weren’t always made in a legal fashion.)
And my dad would come home at around five, ask me how my day was, ask how my homework was going, and then he’d cook dinner while I sat in the living room and doodled. I could draw certain things without having to look at guides at that point, and for the rest, I tried to draw from life. That was what all the books told me to do, anyway.
There was one day that I finished my homework early – at around four, I closed my math book triumphantly and decided that I’d spend my extra time making something out of Legos.
I had a big box of them underneath my bed, just spare blocks for when I felt like doing something in 3D. That day, I felt like making a little house, and that’s exactly what I started to do when I sat down at the counter with the plastic tub on the edge. I laid a foundation, and then I begun to build walls, along with a garage and a back porch.
Honestly, it was looking pretty good, too. I didn’t know anything about architecture or houses, but the bricks were starting to make something that almost looked habitable. Though, after a little while, I noticed that I was a bit thirsty, so I jumped down from my seat and did what any dehydrated ten-year-old would do – get a glass of water.
I probably should’ve watched my elbows, knowing how I was always bound to be the tallest kid in my class, and before I could get a grip on my own mistake, the bucket of Legos had tumbled off the edge of the counter and hit the floor.
The blocks hit the linoleum like tiny pieces of shattered glass, spattering everywhere – they bounced back up and scraped my shins, and some even flew clear across the living room!
And I stood there for a few seconds. There wasn’t anything I could do. It was my fault, I knew it, and there would be consequences.
Suddenly, the front door opened and my dad entered the house after an exhausting day at work, judging from the bags under his eyes and the oil caked underneath his hangnails.
Just like me, he was quiet.
He looked at the floor around my feet. He caught sight of the little plastic bricks that would take ages to wrangle up. And then, he closed his eyes and sighed for a long time.
“Oshie,” he began, his voice low and grave, “you cannot be making these messes in this house. I have told you not to put your Legos on the counter, and do you listen to me?!”
When he got louder, I started to flinch. I’d have given anything to be small.
“No, you do not! And then this happens! Tú me sacas el monstruo en mi sometimes!”
The phrase seemed to echo throughout the empty house. They bounced off all of the Legos and stung my eardrums, driving me further into myself. All I could do was stand in bewilderment and shock at what he’d just said to me – I brought out the monster in him. I didn’t even think my dad had a monster in him.
I must’ve looked pretty goggle-eyed and terrified, because he then turned on a dime.
As if he became a completely different person from the one who just screamed at me, he darted over and got on his knees again, despite me getting taller and taller by the day when he did that. His deep brown eyes catching the reflection of the late afternoon sun, he looked up into mine and seemed to see somebody else alongside me.
“No no no no, I did not mean that, I did not mean to say that,” he blurted as he grabbed my left arm. “Mijo, I am sorry, I did not mean to yell.” Pressing his lips together, he squeezed.
I had no idea what to say to all of that.
“Oshie, are you okay? Lo siento, I promise I didn’t mean…I was angry, I had a tough day. I should never take it out on you, mijo.”
I just nodded along and stared at the area between his eyes. The demeanor in his face had changed too rapidly for me to understand it at first.
Dad took my hand and then said, “I promise, I will try not to yell at you like that again. Accidents happen, I know you did not mean to do this. Just try to be more careful next time, okay?”
“Okay,” I warbled.
He cocked his eyebrow for a moment, but it melted away from his face again. Emotions could be temporary, after all. My dad liked to wear masks sometimes, and negativity could seep out at the wrong moment. It didn’t happen very often, though. He was always good at looking at potential bright sides, making people happy.