What Would You Say?

“What If I showed you a black featureless blob with a human figure? And it had no eyes, no mouth, and no personality. No family. No friends. No religion. No expectations. No consequences. It was just an open canvas waiting to be filled. And If I said that this blob was you, and that you could re-create it however you wanted, in whatever way you wanted… What would it become? What would it love? What would it hate, and where would it go? Why? What would it see? Would it be a criminal? Or a cop? A writer? Or an engineer? Would it have big blue eyes, or small brown ones? What would its goals be? Its dreams? Its personality? How would you fill in the many blanks, and why? And then if I asked, why this newer, re-created version of yourself was so dissimilar to you. What would you say?”

The light from my laptop screen illuminated my face in the darkness of my room, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was there with me. Some sort of weight that I had brought upon myself, as I typed the message originally intended for my friend miles and miles away from me.

After a long pause she replied, “I have to think about this one. Good question Kev.” 

What would you say , rang rampantly through my mind.

“I guess if I could have anything I wanted... my parent’s acceptance. They would let me marry someone that I loved, and love me for it. They would give me the ability to be myself. And I would be happier for it. “

“So basically, you would want choice?” I said. The question wasn’t intended to critique her parents, but I could understand her reasoning behind their inclusion. Her mother and father were the reason for her turning out the way she did. Their influence caused her to be that way, and although she would never say so, they were the answer to “What would you say?”

“I guess you’re right. Choice is very important to me. But what about you now? How would you answer that question?”

How would I respond? A door opened and I recognized it as my grandmother’s room, my grandfather had woken. At the same time the front door to the apartment blasted open, followed by galloping, heavy footsteps, that rushed through the hallway and into the kitchen, where the two met.

“What the fuck is your problem?” I could hear the severity of my grandfather’s tone, from the moment he spoke. The second voice was my grandmother’s, coming home from work. “Excuse me?! Don’t you speak to me that way you son of a bitch! This is my fucking house. Don’t you dare speak like that to me you goddamn dog!”

The two argued like actors on set, ignited by the  the director's OK, and the peaceful quiet of the night, was rocked with loud obnoxious screaming and yelling.

Pausing in the middle of the tentative response to my friend, I opened my door to watch the spectacle. I wanted to step into the middle of them and break them apart but my heart grew heavy like stone. I could feel the familiar weight from the laptop dragging me down, tearing me down into a child watching his parents bicker with the ability, but not the fortitude or bravery to stop it.

All I’d have to do is just step in the middle of them. But I couldn’t do it. I shied away from confrontation, and returned to my room to stare at her question again. “What would you say?”

The incident reminded me of my parents. One morning my mother came home to crumbs on the stove, and broke into a hysteria that shook the block with her and my father’s booming voices for hours. We lived in North Plainfield, New Jersey, in a small sloped apartment complex. That particular morning, I was playing with my toys in the living room; I had just gotten an action figure from my father for my birthday, which had passed a few days before. I was six. My father sat on the couch behind me, watching the Knicks play. He was tall, bald, had big glasses that covered his face, and a scraggly beard. My mother—also tall, with long flowing black hair, and cracked, sleep deprived eyes— had arrived from morning shopping.

“What’s all this on the stove?” she pointed at something in the kitchen.

My father replied nonchalantly: “Oh, I made some eggs for me and Kev a little while ago. Sorry.”

Dragging her steps, mother put her bags down and walked into the kitchen. I could hear pots clanging, and cupboard doors banging shut. My father heard as well, and got up from his seat, peaking over at what she was doing.

“What the hell's going on back there?”

“Don’t speak to me right now!”

He replied with a contorted and confused “excuse me?" followed by an incredulous expression as he proceeded to enter the kitchen to my mother. I continued playing with my toys as they bickered in the background. Most of what went on I was unaware of, because in my story buzz light-year—my new toy—was battling the evil Zurg, and required my full attention to help him win. But in between the slugs and blows of the battle I could hear some of the things my parents said to each other.

“You always do this! You always do this Courtney. Every damn time I come home—“

“Hold up! Hold up! Wait a minute. What are you talking about—“

“Let me finish! Let me finish then—“

“No no you won’t finish! How about you let me talk now huh?”

After Buzz defeated Zurg I was emboldened, and felt brave. I decided to step in between my parents, and let them know how I felt about all their screaming. Gliding to my feet, I walked the long walk to the kitchen. My mother stood next to the stove, still clinging to their excuse for arguing and my father stood next to the front door.

“I can’t take this anymore!’ My mother said exhaustedly. “I’m tired of this”

He laughed “Yeah, we’ll you’re not the only one! You think I like this crap? You think I’m not tired of this shit! Every time you come home you start something!”

“Excuse me?!”
Her eyes opened up and she closed the gap between herself and my father. They were nearly chest to chest. I figured this was my only chance. I jumped in between the two and started begging them to stop it. But they didn’t. Instead they did not notice me. They screamed from the tops of their lungs pushing up against each other, and using me as collateral damage. Finally, I pushed my father. Whether he thought it was my mom, I can never be sure; however what was definite was the force he sent me flying with, right into the refrigerator and onto the floor. The back of my head hit the knob, and everything became a daze, almost imaginary, completely unreal.

“Kevaughn!” The only thing they said that made any sense to me.

My mother screamed at my father, “Your own son!”

My father screamed back “I didn’t know! I didn’t know it was him.”

She replied, “Oh so you thought it was me!? You were gonna push me?!”

I sat quietly, watching them go back forth, whipping tears from my eyes. Eventually, my father decided he needed to get some air; something he should have thought of earlier. My mother took me in her arms, explaining how he didn’t mean to hurt me.

I remember that morning very well. I remember it every time, my grandparents argue, I remember it every time my mother and step-father argue, I remember it every time.

Free from the haunting images of my memory, I sat back at my computer.

“I would be more assertive, and less divertive. Among other things”

“And why aren’t you like that now?”