I haven’t known Rachel for long at all. We met each other in late December 2021, and I felt that we thawed into one another very quickly. It wasn’t hard.
Now that I think about it, it could have been near impossible not to be molds of each other.
We look exactly alike- the difference being her darker skin tone to my brighter one. We both have gaps in our front teeth. They just might be the same width in space. ½ an inch? Her irises are prettier than mine, a bright, deep chocolate brown-nearing purple. Her cheeks are puffier, dimples wide; a site that I find to be the most intriguing about her. Her hair is dark with coils. Her nose is buttoned. Her eyebrows full. Her chin is rounder and hidden further in her face. The same dark eye circles. Wrinkleless foreheads. Sharpened winged eyes. Rounded faces.
23 and 24. A year apart still stings a little. Maybe more so for Mama.
I am consumed by Asian dramas; while she loves Anime. We have the same taste in eyeglasses. I want to write, publish, produce, and host for a living. She wants to create video games. I live alone in California, and she seems to migrate between alone, plus one and alone, plus three.
I am a student.
She is a mom.
I am an aunt.
We seem to ease into any situation. I am sure by consequence.
I study the Bible.
She studies humans.
Her day looks a lot like working from 8-5 at the Dollar General, and on the side, selling mysterious health products in an apparent triangle scheme, then going home to a 2-year-old. At one time, she started taking classes to finish school. Haphazardly, I gave her advice on setting goals and executing them to no avail. Her life’s axis seems to be motherhood at 24.
My day looks a lot like empty space and time for thinking, eating, sleeping, writing, and watching. Ponderings over dating and marriage, lies, and honesty. Every sort of pasta imaginable. Fall at 6 a.m., rise at 9 a.m. Lacking enthusiasm for simple characters. And falling in love with the same second lead in every drama. It has no need for an axis yet… I am thinking about it even as I type this line: How do I promote this clients’ book? When will I finish my thesis? Do I want to move to Texas? I hope that I do well when I start the ministry work? I hope the brothers won’t think horribly of me when I stutter at the publisher’s meeting?
I know very little about her, but these things.
Oddly enough, without ever seeing more than each other’s floating heads through a camera lens, we could only be described as our father’s daughters. Too interesting, to say the least. Especially when thinking about the very 2,717,629-yard distance between our father and us. Too, the reality is that Rachel lives not even a mile away from Daddy.
2,485 yards apart...
Yet, not too long ago, we fell into conversation. We hadn’t made it a habit to speak to each other.
Is it too expected to say, “I mean, I am not sure what to talk to her about.”?
What I think is important and what she takes as priority in her daily life are two different lists. Hmm, two different categories of lists. Two different races. Two other species, it feels.
But we spoke… and, finally, she was revealed to me—an even, familiar crevice of her. Now, it is frustrating to think that there is nothing surprising to her words. I am all too annoyed with the vague phrases:
Life in general
Ha, you can tell by my response:
Oooo… yeah! That’s a big discussion to have with yourself! I think that discussion is realizing that everyone around me is a model… (Continuing on with things I refuse to reveal…)
I found myself correcting my words…
Characters in a story… yes…
I guess you could think of them as characters but that would also imply that the world we live in is fake.
Not necessarily! There are characters in nonfiction work, fiction, literary works——
Characters just imply generalized characteristics. It is just a synonym for role.
But the connotation of that word usually implies fiction
You have to be careful with how you say things. People misunderstand me all of the time haha
Mmmhmm... but that doesn’t change its meaning in any other setting and even fiction isn’t a lie. It is very much made up by people’s perceptions of reality. Sometimes the only thing making a piece fiction is the changing of names. The stories are very much real.
To imply that the world is fake in any way is too general of a statement as well. It contains many lies and misconceptions... misteaching or bluntly misconstrued teachings. Doesn’t mean that it is an ‘illusion’ but that we do create potential illusions.
If you use the word like you did other people will see that way regardless of what you’re trying to say. Personally I don’t think that you would be saying that it’s fake but it’s easy to be perceived that way and usually people always assume the worst before the best these days so it would take on a negative connotation
Mmmm Yes! I understand what you mean. That matters not later. As long as you understand what I mean. I always have a hard time explaining that to people. I think that only writers would understand what I mean fully. But the quick explanation I have to other people is that I am simply observant. Mmmmm yes, observant. I notice it more in my writing now. Whenever I have a workshop someone points out how intent on detail my characters are.... which I can’t quite help because I enjoy visualizing so much.
When I think about this conversation now, it’s clear that I was panicking to prove to my older sister that I am not a psycho weirdo that stares at people in the street; and spending my time studying how to write the pains and joys of their lives for a twisted sense of pleasure.
I wanted her to see me as smart, observant, caring, sweet, loving, and whatever else one would imagine a little sister should be. I wanted to be seen as someone that she could rely on- even if that’s just emotionally. Jehovah knows that this is the time to listen. I wanted her to be able to tell her daughter, ‘TT Rrissa is (Fill in the Blank with Nice Words).’ Or at least something of that manner.
And today? I wonder if she wants me to see her in any sort of light or dark. Does she hope that I think she is someone to look up to; a sister, mother, daughter that I could only dream up? Does she wonder what I am doing? Does she wish that I was less of anything?
Will she ever tell me these things?
I have no desperate feeling towards the idea of growing or ignoring Rachel. It feels that she could become a distant memory at any moment; while also feeling like we could become the closest, distant sisters, if only we actively tried.
I could reenact that time, in my sophomore year, that Daddy called me at midnight to air out his stream of middle-age crisis to me.
“You are the most together, sane one out of all my kids. So, I am putting on you to get all of you together.”
Forget that he didn’t know where Olivia and Javin, and I hadn’t seen them since I was thirteen. I had never seen Rachel’s face, let alone heard her full name.
We could get into another brief conversation about dreams and hopes. I am feeling like that could lead to a lot of dry aspirations: unfulfilled. On both ends.
We could continue to show interest through our father. Can I tolerate any more airing out?
Do I have expectations of her? Any at all?
I find myself contemplating the little that I know of her, hoping that I don’t judge what I don’t know. In my final conclusions, I realize that I don’t want to be even a fraction of that little that I know to be her character. I love looking at those things that make us equal molds, from the face to the father, but I can’t imagine standing in her shoes.
There is a desperation in that.
I can only imagine how lonely it has been for her. While neither one of us grew up with our father, I saw him more often than she could possibly count on one hand. I could only imagine craving my father’s attention, only to be approached once with the anticipation of minimal further attempts.
‘Daddy, I thought that you were angry with me and didn’t want to speak to me anymore.’
Being misunderstood and abandoned on loop. I can’t imagine- not in this way.
Character: Rassa
September 9,2020
My hands have taken it upon themselves to press his name in the contacts list. My brain has made notes to itself to make sure I call him eventually, even if not in the next week. And it doesn’t prep itself for any particular discussions. It doesn’t prime itself for any particular onslaught of conversation that could lead to some heartbreaking conclusions or awkwardly odd, surface statements of life advice.
My heart doesn’t pound, either. I don’t feel a sense of pain, anger, or anxiety as he picks up the phone and casually leads the conversation.
‘Hey, Baby. What’s going on?’
I don’t feel a sense of duty as Grandmama says I should.
Sometime during my first few months in Cali, Grandmama and I lay up in the dark for our usual 2 in-the-morning talks. I am sure we were talking about something that had a lot to do with something that had nothing to do with him in the beginning. That is usually how our discussions start, me babbling on about the things I think she will find important- she sitting in silence until there was room to comment about something that she feels is relevant to life in general. So, it starts with something like:
“I am already working on this writing project, Grandmama. I am super excited about it.”
*Silence*
“It will be about a Black girl who is finding herself while living far away from home. She is quiet and to herself but smart. It is in script form.”
*Silence*
“I am just worried that the character may not seem interesting enough because she is alone often…And the more I write the character, I realize that what makes most humans interesting to each other is how we respond, especially in a show. There aren’t many TV shows about a person that is alone happily. Most of the character’s personality is revealed by their interactions with the other characters. So, I am going to focus on that as I write this female lead- I want to paint her moments of peace that are created by her presence.”
“Mmmhmm, people who typically live alone end up having a lot to say to people when they get around them because they have had a lot of thoughts that they haven’t gotten to share. It is like keeping information bottled up. I know cause I noticed that as I speak to people, I talk a lot. That could be interesting to write about.”
And our conversation could lead anywhere from there…
This particular night of duty, we were discussing success versus trauma.
“Grandmama, I have never thought I had to prove anything to him. I just did the best I could and hoped that you and Mama would be proud of me.”
Why am I crying? I can’t believe that I didn’t realize that she would think it was this important for me to call him. I should have known that she would expect me to do that. Do I think that he deserves my attention after all of these years? I have never hated him for any of the things I heard he did…
At least, that was what it felt like we were discussing as she scolded me for my words.
“Marrissa, that is even worse. Jehovah tells us that we should honor our parents. Do you think that you are adhering to Jehovah’s law by completely ignoring him?”
*Silence*
‘Even with my father, I didn’t agree with everything that he did. My father was a misogynist and did not follow Jehovah’s laws and principles, but I still respected him. You know he was a pimp, and he was used to controlling women. He was used to treating them like whores, even while in the house with his wife. When he came to stay with us for the little time he did, he made the mistake of calling me out of my name. I had to let him know immediately that that was unacceptable in my house. I sat him down and said, ‘Daddy, you are a misogynist. You are used to stepping all over women and your wife, but I won’t let you speak to me like that in my home. You don’t have to stay here if you do not want to, but if you stay here, you will respect me and my family.’ There is a way to honor your parents without hurting them…’
What’s so wrong with my honesty? He doesn’t come to my mind ever. He isn’t on my list of top priority calls to make. And it isn’t because I hate him… we have always been distant. It is almost as if my moving back in with Mama in high school was a restraining order for him to stop coming to visit me. It is easy to convince myself that I didn’t do enough to make him want to get to know me. I even sent him a five-page letter when I was thirteen, telling him about all of the things I was interested in and what I was thinking about at thirteen. He never sent one back.
*Silence*
Was I angry with him about anything? I love Sagan. Even though I wasn’t invited to the wedding and only found out that he got married because someone in Fordyce had whispered it to Grandmama over the phone one night, it didn’t bother me at all. It would have been awkward for me to be at the wedding after six years of not speaking, hearing, or even remembering what he looked like… I was never upset about the rumors: that he had told other people that I wasn’t his or that I had an older sister that I had never met. I never even felt the urge to ask him about any of those things. What mattered to me at thirteen and now is whether he chose to be here.
“You know what, Grandmama? The truth of the matter is that I am angry with him.” My lips quivered and watered enough for me to be relieved at my honesty.
“I know you are.”
“Did I ever tell you about the time that he called me at midnight in my Sophomore year of college…?”
Sophomore year’s second semester was especially rough for me. It was the first time that I had been experiencing anxiety, worried about what sort of woman I would become. My only space for relief was writing rhetoric papers about White privilege and being consumed by Korean lyrics that lulled me to sleep.
The anxiety had gotten so bad that I stayed awake, trying to force myself to cry for relief. Grandmama had had late-night talks then, too; her lying in a hospital bed and I facing the cool white wall of my dorm, aching for more privacy, praying that Jennifer didn’t wake up. Surprisingly, I only had two of these talks with Grandmama at that time. Other nights were filled with my studies, music, and the occasional outing with Jennifer.
Somehow, he had found me at just those times-- a moment when I was most at ease.
I typed away at some assignment from Dr. Payne and feeling giddy from how well the words were rolling away from me.
My phone lit up, and I was consumed by confusion as I glanced at the computer’s screen for the time—something like 12 to 1 in the morning.
“Hey, Daddy.”
My heart didn’t stutter or move. The words rolled off my tongue like oil mixing with water.
“Hey, Baby. What you doing?” ---such a casual tone.
It wasn’t until Jennifer walked to the closets behind me that I realized that the phone was on speaker.
“I am doing my paper.” My fingers moved across the keys with the last thoughts I had had before answering the call.
“Where are you?” --Why is he confused?
“Umm, my room..”
“You in your room doing homework at midnight on a Friday…?” ---What in the world? Where else would I be? Why is his voice curling like that? Why did he drag out homework?
“Yes, sir.”
Such a cool, sweet tone, Rrissa. No accusation at all.
“rEaLLy?”
He is only asking from his experiences—no big deal.
“Yes, Daddy…”
“Ahh… well, I’m calling to talk to you about something important.” --- Such a severe and empty tone.
An odd feeling rolled over me. I never get embarrassed or have a hard time dealing with serious moments, but a laugh slipped out, naturally, to the tone of his seriousness. The feeling was almost as if I was giddy at the thought of him wanting to speak to me about something important, but it was odd. I had never felt that we were on such terms. It didn’t help that I hadn’t spoken to him for almost two years. The last encounter we had was in front of Grandmama’s apartment after graduation, just like the old times brief times before I was in my junior year of high school. Before graduation, we hadn’t spoken to each other since the beginning of my sophomore year of high school.
“Don’t laugh; I am serious.” --Assertive.
Smiling wider-- “Is Sagan pregnant?”
“Pahaheheh, No. Sagan isn’t pregnant. Do you know why Sagan and I don’t have kids?”
Dry tone--
Finally, an honest question. “Because you have too many kids, and you don’t know where they are….”
Comfortable mirth-- “Right, and that is what I wanted to talk to you about. You know you have a sister that is a year older than you?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”-- Why did the question remind me of Usher’s confessions so much?
“Your sister told me, Olivia, and Javin when we were visiting you once.”
“Ahhh… okay. Well, yes! You have an older sister. Her name is….”
I completely forgot after he told me what it was. My mind wandered off to the paper that I was typing-- irritated that he had interrupted my train of thought. Much of the rest of what he was saying fell from my mind as he spoke because the things that stood out were terrifying to me.
“I won’t be here forever. I will be gone one day. And I am putting you in charge of making sure that you get you and your brother and sisters together. You are the sanest one out of all of my kids….”
Should I be flattered?
PitpatPitpitpIT--my heart fluttered in confusion.
“Take out a pen and write their names and stuff down.”
I barely know them, and that hurt my feelings.
“You are gonna have to get y’all together. Olivia and Javin aren’t talking to me. There Mama has moved them away from Fordyce without telling me where they are moving. So, I heard that they are…”
PahahpItpitHehEding- my heart started to ache.
This is embarrassing. No, Marrissa. You can’t say that. Respect him. This has to be difficult for him too.
Jennifer had started to get into bed for the night. I could feel her staring at me, and I couldn’t help but look over to her side of the room with confusion on my face.
“I don’t have much time. So, I need you to do this.”
Without coherent thought, my face fell into itself. My eyebrows lightly creased with worry. My voice took up a higher pitch. I continued to look over at Jennifer as she grew concerned with me, even more confused. I averted my eyes- avoided looking at her side of the room for the rest of the night.
“Daddy, are you and Sagan okay?”
‘Yes. We are fine. I am just telling you this because I want my kids to know each other.’ Or something like that… I can’t recall the rest of the conversation because, in those moments, I had concluded that my father had cancer.
And as I reiterated this story to Grandmama in a brief and less detailed manner, I found myself recalling ending the call in panic. I called Mama scared, telling her that Daddy was dying or something.
At the time, that was the most crucial aspect of our conversation. And even with my concern, I sat only mildly worried about the matter.
Mama made sure to call me back later; “Girl, he is just having a mid-life crisis- thinking about all of the mistakes he has made in his life and rehashing it with himself.”
“Oh, okay.” I had concluded right.
Grandmama listened to the story again, maybe for the second time, but this time with tears of hurt and irritation in my voice.
“I felt so overwhelmed at the time, Grandmama. How could he call me and make it my responsibility to make sure that his kids bond? I don’t w-want to do that. They are not my kids. I am the d-aaughter. I am not his wife or their Mama.” I am just as lost without a father as they are.
I am just as lost- without a father as they are.
And as I speak to him over the phone now, remembering Jehovah’s request for respect, this memory doesn’t come to me as much anymore.
He is just as lost without a father as we are. He is just as lost without his kids as any father.
And as we share words on the phone, time continues to grow. We don’t grow closer. Our I love you silently grows meaning too. I plan to move across the ocean to work. He tells me how proud he is of me, retelling a story about a time that he thought I wouldn’t make it in college because of an issue that was told by my mother- a misunderstanding that was was drawn out by their odd attempts at co-parenting a 17- year old me without previous years of practice.
The more he retells the story, the more I realize another reason to not be angry.
He is so very alone.
As I tell him of my plans to move further away from home, my heart-- PitPatsutsutPat.
“You know I have seen you or been able to do anything with you in years. If you get the job, I hope you come home first so we can see each other.”
I ignore the more brutal, adult thought I have of him leaving my college graduation as soon as Sagan handed me my graduation present.
Sagan breaks into our conversation with words that doubled as encouragement for Daddy and for me.
“She is just telling you that she is applying. She hadn’t gotten it.”
So very lonely. Both of them.
A memory comes to me now; I vaguely remember Mama saying that she had a surprise for me. And she took me to a Singular store. As I stood in the doorway, right across from me, stood a short, stocky dark-skinned man. His eyes landed on me, and a smile spread across my face. The nervous look fell from his eyes as he bent down and picked up tiny Marrissa.
I didn’t know who he was until we were about to leave the Singular store. I just saw him as my surprise person. And there was no image in my mind that represented him. But like my hand, as it dials his number, my feet flew towards him, and my heart accepted him with open arms as natural as breathing.
I should tell Grandmama that I know how to create a lone peace-filled Black female lead.
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May 6,2021