Making Lists

Sofy Dzhanashvili
03/26/09
English 211W
Professor Henkle


Ways to deal with a divorce:
1. avoid eye contact with all family members
2. torture the guilty party (the father) by dating older boys
3. exploit the situation, aka ask for a lot of money
4. Bob Dylan
5. display histrionic scenes of teenage frustration (examples: slamming doors, stomping up stairs, refusing to eat dinner, ect.)

They didn’t sit me down, their eyes full of concern, my father clearing his throat, my mother patting my knee and explaining “We are just taking a break now from our marriage, but we care about you so much and want you to know that your relationship with either of us will not change.” No, it didn’t go=2 0the way it’s supposed to.
The real version involved loud screaming, an illegal business transaction, packed suitcases, public humiliation and no good-byes. I was 14. I knew nothing more than my self-pity and collection of classic rock albums.
My mother remained motionless in bed for the entire weekend, living off of sleep and anti-depressants. She was in my sister’s bed, of course, since she refused to sleep in the one in her room (and continues to do so).
My grandmother came over the morning after my father left, apparently (in my sister’s words) to “diffuse the situation.” She brought over napoleon tarts and a lot of bad advice. She rubbed my brother’s shoulders and told him that he was now the man of the house, and therefore should b e there for his sisters and stop smoking weed. She told me to lose weight. She yelled at my sister to always have her hair down. She scolded my mother for allowing my father to leave her. I prayed for all of them to disappear. They didn’t.
So I took initiative and disappeared on my own.
It began slowly. First, with running up to my room the minute I walked into the house. Then, in long, pregnant silences at the dinner table, continued with constant wearing of headphones and tuning-out of all outside noise. Finally, when all social contact had been reduced to “yes or no” answers and nods of the head, I withdrew completely into the seat of an eighteen-year-old’s beat-up Chevy Nova. He liked wearing hats and apologizing, and I liked making lists and escape. We made a good match.
Fact: all parents mess up their children.
But this comes in varying degrees, unfortunately.