Jeff - What's That on Your Face
Jeff
Week 8
“What’s that on your face?” “Go brush your teeth.” “Get a haircut, you’re starting to look like a girl.” “You need to shave every morning.”
“You have a spot on your shirt, now it’s ruined.” “You can’t wear that, there’s a hole in it.” “Polish your shoes.” “Where are you going looking like that?”
“Sit up straight.” “Stand up straight.” “Speak up, I can’t hear you.”
“What are you whining about?” “Quit you’re crying.” “Stop your bellyaching.” “Stop being such a Mama’s boy, are you a Mama’s boy?” “You’re just a titty baby, a Mama’s boy.” “Stop acting like such a pansy.”
“Maybe next time you’ll make all As.” “At least act like you know what you’re doing.”
He didn’t start to pay attention until around the time of junior high school. “What’s that on your face”, he snapped. It didn’t matter if it was a pimple or a cookie crumb or a smudge, it wasn’t acceptable. “Get in there and clean yourself up.” A cookie crumb or a smudge was easy to take care of, but how could I wipe away a pimple? I knew that he would continue to criticize me about the pimple or would tease me about the smell of the Clearasil that I would use to try to cover it up. “And while you’re in there, do me a favor and shave…you look like hell.” When it was a pimple on my face, I was so embarrassed and ashamed and felt like it was my fault…maybe I had eaten too much candy. He always said that candy was bad for me. I would do whatever I could to hide the blemishes on my face. Of course he never had pimples, or so he said.
Not that his personal appearance was so great. His beard was usually rough and shaggy, as was his hair…think Saddam Hussein when they pulled him out from under that rock. His clothing was rarely fresh, in fact, many times stained and/or torn. He received clothing for Christmas but refused to wear anything new until his current wardrobe was sufficiently worn out. He always smelled of beer or alcohol or chewing tobacco. And, he was fat…something I can never be because of him although I am currently the heaviest I have ever been in my life. He wasn’t just chubby…he had a big, beer gut hanging over his underwear, fatness…all bloated and disproportionate. Him sleeping on the couch in his underwear, snoring, mouth open, taking up space…I can see it so well. His truck was filled with empty beer cans, a couple of them always clanking to the ground when you opened the door. And it smelled of stale beer, like a Bourbon Street bar at about 9AM. His shop and boats were always a mess and also smelled. His chewing tobacco habit was disgusting.
“Do as I say, not as I do”, he always told me. His criticisms and judgements flowed so freely and naturally. I’m guessing that he thought he was doing his job, as if his purpose was to improve me by tearing me down. “What’s that on your face?” It always appeared to me that he was above any judgement even though I could see that he was far from perfect. And I know that he felt that laws and rules did not apply to him because he always did things his way. Breaking the law was not uncommon.
As a small child, really for as long as I can remember, I hated him. I always wished that he would leave one day and never come back. I’m ok with these thoughts now because if I were presented with this situation today, I would place the responsibility on the adult (when a very young child has such feelings). However, as many children might, I thought it was my fault and that I was a bad child for hoping that he would go away.
Why didn’t I like him? He scared me. Why was I afraid of him? He was loud and gruff and abrupt. Why was I so uncomfortable with him? He was mean. Why didn’t I like to be alone with him? He was too scary. Did he ever hug me? I don’t think so. Was he jealous of me? Probably. Who was he? I don’t know.
I guess he thought that his job with me didn’t begin until after I was out of elementary school. Before that, I don’t remember much attention from him at all which was fine with me. In fact, I avoided him. Then, all of the sudden, he became engaged and got involved…and he expected and demanded perfection. Perfection in how I looked, dressed, behaved, spoke. I had to present myself appropriately, say all of the right things at the right times, look the part. If I wasn’t what he thought I should be, he let me know it in his negative and sarcastic way. I dreaded seeing him and hearing the sound of his voice. His tone was filled with disdain. Every day was judgement day. “What’s that on your face?” Schoolwork had to be the best…a B was not acceptable.
He continued to berate me for as long as I lived with him. He had been winning for so many years…as a toddler and during my early childhood, he scared me and ignored me. As a preteen and early teen, he expected and demanded and criticized. His verbal beatings were short and concise but so penetrating and long lasting. “What’s that on your face?” But the year I turned sixteen, I began to push back. Finally, I stood up to him. At first, I was tentative. But over time, I became more and more brave…me, in his face, screaming at him. If he criticized me, I criticized him. Anything that he stood for, I was against. When he lectured me or demanded something of me, I laughed at him. For some reason, he took it…he never pushed me, hit me or became physical in any way. But our mutual hatred for each other was clear.
I had learned from a master. “What’s that on your face?” I learned to level him as he had leveled me so many times. I still hated him and wished that he would go away. And I stopped feeling bad about that.
Today, my Dad is one of those old men who screams, “Get out of my yard”, to the neighborhood kids. I rarely speak to him and see him even less. When I do talk to him on the phone, all I can think about is how I can hurry up and end the call. “What’s that on your face?” It’s interesting, he’s soft and quiet and even likeable now. I guess that a long time ago, we both gave up…we agreed to disagree? But I’ll never give him a chance. I don’t really hate him any more…I’m indifferent, or I maybe I just like to think that. Does he matter to me? No. Do I care if I see him? No.
The last time we spoke, I told him that I was going to send him a clock for his birthday that gets a signal from a satellite so it never loses time and never has to be set. The perfect clock for a not so perfect man. I never bought the clock or sent his birthday card, which is still in the bottom of a drawer somewhere…his birthday was in July. Maybe I’ll send it with his Christmas gift…which will be more clothes he will probably store away until just the right time to finally wear them. “What’s that on your face?” I’m sure he thinks it when he sees the redness of my skin from my rosacea or when he sees my eczema that has lived on my face for many years now. “What’s that on your face?” He never says it any more. He doesn’t have to say it. I still hear it though…I hear it all the time.
Week 8
“What’s that on your face?” “Go brush your teeth.” “Get a haircut, you’re starting to look like a girl.” “You need to shave every morning.”
“You have a spot on your shirt, now it’s ruined.” “You can’t wear that, there’s a hole in it.” “Polish your shoes.” “Where are you going looking like that?”
“Sit up straight.” “Stand up straight.” “Speak up, I can’t hear you.”
“What are you whining about?” “Quit you’re crying.” “Stop your bellyaching.” “Stop being such a Mama’s boy, are you a Mama’s boy?” “You’re just a titty baby, a Mama’s boy.” “Stop acting like such a pansy.”
“Maybe next time you’ll make all As.” “At least act like you know what you’re doing.”
He didn’t start to pay attention until around the time of junior high school. “What’s that on your face”, he snapped. It didn’t matter if it was a pimple or a cookie crumb or a smudge, it wasn’t acceptable. “Get in there and clean yourself up.” A cookie crumb or a smudge was easy to take care of, but how could I wipe away a pimple? I knew that he would continue to criticize me about the pimple or would tease me about the smell of the Clearasil that I would use to try to cover it up. “And while you’re in there, do me a favor and shave…you look like hell.” When it was a pimple on my face, I was so embarrassed and ashamed and felt like it was my fault…maybe I had eaten too much candy. He always said that candy was bad for me. I would do whatever I could to hide the blemishes on my face. Of course he never had pimples, or so he said.
Not that his personal appearance was so great. His beard was usually rough and shaggy, as was his hair…think Saddam Hussein when they pulled him out from under that rock. His clothing was rarely fresh, in fact, many times stained and/or torn. He received clothing for Christmas but refused to wear anything new until his current wardrobe was sufficiently worn out. He always smelled of beer or alcohol or chewing tobacco. And, he was fat…something I can never be because of him although I am currently the heaviest I have ever been in my life. He wasn’t just chubby…he had a big, beer gut hanging over his underwear, fatness…all bloated and disproportionate. Him sleeping on the couch in his underwear, snoring, mouth open, taking up space…I can see it so well. His truck was filled with empty beer cans, a couple of them always clanking to the ground when you opened the door. And it smelled of stale beer, like a Bourbon Street bar at about 9AM. His shop and boats were always a mess and also smelled. His chewing tobacco habit was disgusting.
“Do as I say, not as I do”, he always told me. His criticisms and judgements flowed so freely and naturally. I’m guessing that he thought he was doing his job, as if his purpose was to improve me by tearing me down. “What’s that on your face?” It always appeared to me that he was above any judgement even though I could see that he was far from perfect. And I know that he felt that laws and rules did not apply to him because he always did things his way. Breaking the law was not uncommon.
As a small child, really for as long as I can remember, I hated him. I always wished that he would leave one day and never come back. I’m ok with these thoughts now because if I were presented with this situation today, I would place the responsibility on the adult (when a very young child has such feelings). However, as many children might, I thought it was my fault and that I was a bad child for hoping that he would go away.
Why didn’t I like him? He scared me. Why was I afraid of him? He was loud and gruff and abrupt. Why was I so uncomfortable with him? He was mean. Why didn’t I like to be alone with him? He was too scary. Did he ever hug me? I don’t think so. Was he jealous of me? Probably. Who was he? I don’t know.
I guess he thought that his job with me didn’t begin until after I was out of elementary school. Before that, I don’t remember much attention from him at all which was fine with me. In fact, I avoided him. Then, all of the sudden, he became engaged and got involved…and he expected and demanded perfection. Perfection in how I looked, dressed, behaved, spoke. I had to present myself appropriately, say all of the right things at the right times, look the part. If I wasn’t what he thought I should be, he let me know it in his negative and sarcastic way. I dreaded seeing him and hearing the sound of his voice. His tone was filled with disdain. Every day was judgement day. “What’s that on your face?” Schoolwork had to be the best…a B was not acceptable.
He continued to berate me for as long as I lived with him. He had been winning for so many years…as a toddler and during my early childhood, he scared me and ignored me. As a preteen and early teen, he expected and demanded and criticized. His verbal beatings were short and concise but so penetrating and long lasting. “What’s that on your face?” But the year I turned sixteen, I began to push back. Finally, I stood up to him. At first, I was tentative. But over time, I became more and more brave…me, in his face, screaming at him. If he criticized me, I criticized him. Anything that he stood for, I was against. When he lectured me or demanded something of me, I laughed at him. For some reason, he took it…he never pushed me, hit me or became physical in any way. But our mutual hatred for each other was clear.
I had learned from a master. “What’s that on your face?” I learned to level him as he had leveled me so many times. I still hated him and wished that he would go away. And I stopped feeling bad about that.
Today, my Dad is one of those old men who screams, “Get out of my yard”, to the neighborhood kids. I rarely speak to him and see him even less. When I do talk to him on the phone, all I can think about is how I can hurry up and end the call. “What’s that on your face?” It’s interesting, he’s soft and quiet and even likeable now. I guess that a long time ago, we both gave up…we agreed to disagree? But I’ll never give him a chance. I don’t really hate him any more…I’m indifferent, or I maybe I just like to think that. Does he matter to me? No. Do I care if I see him? No.
The last time we spoke, I told him that I was going to send him a clock for his birthday that gets a signal from a satellite so it never loses time and never has to be set. The perfect clock for a not so perfect man. I never bought the clock or sent his birthday card, which is still in the bottom of a drawer somewhere…his birthday was in July. Maybe I’ll send it with his Christmas gift…which will be more clothes he will probably store away until just the right time to finally wear them. “What’s that on your face?” I’m sure he thinks it when he sees the redness of my skin from my rosacea or when he sees my eczema that has lived on my face for many years now. “What’s that on your face?” He never says it any more. He doesn’t have to say it. I still hear it though…I hear it all the time.
posted by LifeWriter at 7:37 AM
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