Princess

One of the mysteries of my father was this apparent belief that he treated me "like a princess.*" And, compared to my brothers, there was more money when I came along, about a decade after them. Keeping me in catholic school until graduation (tenth in a class of 137) was a real expense, but that was at my mother's insistence, a priority he would never have made. I never cared about things that much, I knew we were fairly poor, and I took pride in being frugal and doing without. I never knowingly asked for anything expensive, it took convincing to buy me anything beyond the cheapest and most needed items. I took the expense of school very seriously. Yes, I had pretty good Christmases and Birthdays for presents, by my standards, largely because of aunts and uncles and being nearly the only child in the family at the time. I was very grateful. By his twisted reasoning, that meant I should love him for giving me so much, and if only he'd given me more, I would have loved him. If my love could have been bought, he'd never have been able to afford it. Not with things, anyway.

I remember, at my mother's urging, trying to tell him about my day at school, from the back seat of the car, on the way home from picking him up at work†. He ignored me, and cut me off, not letting me get a word in edgewise. I tried again, mostly because my mother asked, because he often complained to her that I never told him anything. I got pointedly snubbed, again. I retreated to a soup of backseat hatred. I knew, knew for sure, that I would only ever get whatever things he offered. Never love, no attention, no appreciation. The last, definitive straw.

Because I also never forgot when I'd had the flu, the Hong Kong variety at the same time Roots was first shown. I had a very high fever, miserable and limp. My mother had to get groceries, and left me with him. He watched TV. I asked for water. I begged him for water. He pretended I did not exist. This was worse than the few times I was left with my oldest brother, and he only had ears and eyes for his girlfriend, and I knew I was alone. Even Dave, self involved and callow youth, would have not abandoned me if I were so ill. My own father did, though.

All this is not raw and hurtful now. Honestly, it is just history. I stand apart from it, amazed at the casual cruelty, and self serving belief system that fuels it. He is a soul to be pitied, if not indulged. He looks down upon me with scorn.

Joke's on him. The universe has no up or down.



*Historically, Princesses have been treated worse than pawns. Whores for the State. Hostages. So, he kinda got that right, although not by his definition.

†As a janitor/groundskeeper for a cemetery/crematorium. Honest work, but hardly the kind of income to impress a real gold digger.