Is Dad Okay?

Don't ask. Don't tell.

My neighborhood was sleepy this hot July afternoon, and the sticky air hung like a festoon of Spanish moss in a Mississippi bayou. The creak of crickets and the drone of cicada added to the made-up image in my mind of a southern summer day. Just running from my friend’s mother’s car to the front stoop of our three-story tenement caused my loose-fitting t-shirt to stick to my skin. I had spent much of the morning and early afternoon swimming at my friend’s house further down the street and near the town line. His mom generously offered to give me a ride home, thus saving my parents the trip.

After waving goodbye to my friend from our front porch I opened the screen door and ran up the steps to the door to our second-floor apartment. My family occupied the top two floors of the building with my maternal grandparents, who owned the building, living on the ground level. Because their door was closed, I assumed that my grandparents were out for the afternoon. I also noticed that our door was closed and locked, which was also unusual if my parents were home. Perhaps they were out back out our own swimming pool.

Over a bowl of Cheerios earlier that morning I learned that my father had a rare Saturday off. Between his job as a firefighter and moonlighting as a short-haul truck driver, we typically would not see him until late afternoon on Saturdays. Oh well, he’s earned it, I thought to myself.

Turning the doorknob to our apartment door, I found it locked. This was highly unusual, even if everyone was down at the pool out back. As I was about to descend the stairs to check the backyard, I heard the door open softly with my mother’s arm holding the door close to her body. I turned and peered into the space in the door and noticed the entire apartment was dark. My curiosity must have been evident on my facial expression, so before I had a chance to speak, my mother put a finger to her pursed lips and said “shh….your father is not feeling well. Your uncle is here sitting with him.”

My 12 year-old mind raced, catastrophizing the situation. I mulled the facts in a micro-second of rational thought. Door locked. Lights off. Shades drawn. Uncle here. None of this made sense to me.

I looked up to my mother, who towered more than 2 feet above me in the space she allowed in the doorway. Her face was pressed against the door. “What’s wrong with him?” I asked intrepidly.

“He’s having a bad migraine. Your uncle is sitting with him”, she repeated.

This also made no sense to me. My father had had migraines in the past. We never pulled the shades down before, nor did this ever require a visit from my uncle. Concerned that something was really wrong, my mind started racing. Looking back into my mother’s eyes for some – any signal of reassurance, I panicked.

“Is he going to die?” I asked earnestly, not really wanting to know.

What occurred next was so sudden, so unthinkable, that I was completely taken by surprise. Without uttering a word, my mother slapped me across the face with such force that it snapped my head sideways. I nearly fell down the stairs in the shock of that violent moment.

“Don’t you ever say that again,” she admonished, slamming the door shut.

I sat on the top step and felt the sting of the slap begin to fade, but that is not what pained me. I was baffled as to why my mother resorted to hitting me when all I was seeking was some reassurance that my father was going to be okay.

As a kid, I never asked my mother about this event. What was the point? Would she remember? Would she be remorseful? Or would she hit me again for bringing it up?

Looking back on this event decades later, I now know that a 12 year-old  boy learned that day that it was not safe to express himself in situations where he felt emotionally vulnerable. At that time I learned that keeping my thoughts to myself was a safer route. And that discomfort to express myself plagues me to this day.