the places we come from
A few days ago, I was reminded of something that happened with my father when I was very young. Like so many memories of my father, this one is frightening and painful, unjust and infuriating. I’m not entirely defined by the painful aspects of my youth, but they’re an important part of my story, and they have left their mark on me. No doubt that’s where some of my vigilance comes from. It’s part of why I have walls around me and so few people can bring those walls down and get close to me.
Unsurprisingly, nobody really knows anything about that part of my life. I mean, people know about it in broad strokes, but I don’t have a person, not a single person on this planet, who really knows me well enough to know the places I come from. There’s nobody I’ve shown pictures of my parents to, told my parents’ names to, told the stories of where I grew up and how, the complexity of my feelings for my father, a man I admired and feared, loved and sometimes hated. I want someone, someday, to walk through the hallways of my memories with me. Someone I trust. Someone whose presence feels like a kind of light in the dark places. And I want that person to bring me into her childhood, too, to give me a tour of the places she comes from, and be glad for my presence there.
I feel like there’s a very real way in which nobody really knows me. Nobody. And I want so very much to know someone, and to be known.
Notes
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