Liar

“We have to talk.”

“F*ck you.”

“What?”

“F*ck you.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“You do not come down and invade my space like that! That is not your space! You had no right—”

“What are you saying? I have every right, this is my house! What right do you have?”

“That is my space, MY space—!”

“No—“

“Isn’t that what I paid for? Isn’t that what I pay for—?!”

“No—!”

“You had no right!”

“YOU do not pay for anything! Your parents pay for you staying here. And no, that is not what they pay for-!”

“It’s still my money, it’s still for me, you had absolutely no right, NO right—“

“I live here, I’m a daughter in this household! What right do you have?! Who are you?!”

“…”

“Let’s go downstairs and talk.”

“No, let’s not go downstairs and talk.”

“Go downstairs and let’s talk.”

*Door shuts*

“No. Why do we need to go downstairs? Why don’t we just talk right here?”

“Because I don’t want to wake up my parents.”

“Why don’t we just talk calmly and rationally right here? Go ahead. Speak.”

“Open the door and let’s go downstairs.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want to wake up my parents and have them join our little chat here! Do you not know what the situation is?! If they wake up and come down here it will be worse for you. Don’t you realize I can’t do anything if they wake up?!”

“…”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“Oh here we go.”

“Why did you lie to me?”

“It’s none of your f*cking business.”

“It is my business. I’m a daughter in this household, this is more my house than it will ever be yours, and this isn’t something I can hide from them, I have to tell my parents but I need the truth! This is the only way I can help! Don’t you understand?!”

“GO AHEAD! I KNEW you would judge her like that—”

“I’m not judging her—“

“I knew you would. Everything you say about accepting is shit—”

“Stop it—“

“I KNEW it—!”

“I’M NOT JUDGING HER I’M JUDGING YOU! I’ve sinned against YOU! If I’m wrong then just tell me! Tell me the truth!”

“…”

“Why did you have to lie about taking her home?”

“…”

“What happened downstairs?”

“It’s not your fuc-”

“It IS! It’s my business! Do you realize you will get kicked out if you don’t tell me the truth?! Don’t you know I don’t want that? I don’t want that! So just tell me the truth!”

“GO AHEAD! I’VE BEEN THROWN OUT BEFORE! GO AHEAD!”

“?!”

“My dad got fired from a job before, know why? BECAUSE HE-!”

“I didn’t ask about these things! Why are you saying this?!”

“Go ahead, f*ck you!”

“What happened downstairs?”

“I hate this f*cking place—”

“What happened downstairs?!”

“…”

“What happened downstairs? Just tell me!”

“F*ck this.”

“Stop, no! We- are- not- done—”

“Get the f*ck out of the way.”

“…”

“GET THE F*CK OUT OF MY WAY!”

Upstairs…

Jae-young: Are you okay? I heard everything.

Me: …

Jae-young: Brenda?

Me: He wasn’t always like this…

Jae-young: Ohh no, no, no of course. Don’t cry, it’ll be okay.

Me: I don’t understand.

Jae-young: It’s okay, don’t try to understand right now. You did the right thing. Don’t cry, it’ll be okay. You did the right thing.

The Profile of a Bad Man

The first time that my church split was the ugliest. I was an 11-year-old witness to the shameful, twisted monster that my church became and, like the city folk left alive after each attack in those Godzilla movies, I was left to pick up the pieces and deal with the aftermath.

Sure. It's just church, and one of many, many others. I've never had to suffer the loss of economic or familial security, the death of a close friend, or even the uncertainty of health. Sometimes, even now, when people explain to me their grievances I find myself only able to listen with a, somewhat, detached sympathy because the lack of shared experience. Since I have never known those kind of losses, I can only relate so deeply. Often times I wonder if my pains with the church are even comparable with some of the losses that friends and family have confided in me; I wonder if maybe I haven't blown the situation with my church back then up and out of proportion. Sometimes I say to myself, 'Maybe it really wasn't that bad...'

Then I'll meet with old friends from that church and I see the monster's footprint in their eyes. It was in the way they're eyes would go to the ground as we danced around the subject of church.

Godzilla had been there, there was no denying that.

I never knew the name or face of the man who'd started everything. I don't know if he was the one who'd started the rumors about the senior pastor stealing money from the treasury but I've been chalking it up to his doing for the past 10 years. I don't know exactly why the police showed up at our church one Sunday afternoon; people were outside, linking arms and forming a barricade with their bodies and I always imagine that it's against that man. That man.

Maybe he wore a gray suit. In my mind I always imagined him to be a man in his 40's with slightly graying hair because my parents were about that age. I recalled the cold, disgusted look that one of the old grandmothers had given me when I bowed in greeting to her. As a child I was not keeping track of who was on what side (because there eventually were two sides to the church), but clearly she had. I took the hardened look on what should have been a kindly face and added it to the profile of an imaginary real man that I, in my childish mind, ascribed all the causes of the church's problems.

(to be continued)

Daughters Were Meant to Interrupt Fathers

I close the door behind me and kick off my shoes into the coat closet near the front door. I'd seen his white '96 Camry parked in the driveway so I knew he was home. I called out for him as I ran up the stairs.

"Dad?"

I hear his response coming from downstairs in the living room, so I toss my bag and keys on my bed and head down again. From the kitchen I ask him how his day has been; I can see him sitting on his sofa chair in the living room corner, by a tall lamp and a wall of books. Often when I ask him this question he'll answer with something like, "productive" or "good"; today he chose the latter. As I pull out milk and cereal I continue to throw out questions. I ask him about work and church; sometimes I even just ask what he thinks of a certain event or person. I know he is reading, but I continue.

After each inquiry that I make, he patiently looks up from his book, his expression thoughtful, and answers my questions with a smile that brings out the gentle wrinkles around his long-browed eyes. He's in his favorite past-time: the lamp is shining on him and his book; he has a blanket spread out on his lap because the heating costs too much and the television is off. I should’ve let him be, but part of me wanted to throw his concentration off one more time so I ask:

"Dad, do you want some tea?"

He puts his finger down on the page, looks up with that easy smile and exclaims in delighted, unshaken surprise, "Oh! That would be very nice. Thank you, my wonderful daughter."
He goes back to his reading, still smiling.