No, Really, I Am an American

“You’re dad and I are so disappointed in you.”

The temper that I hide from everyone else flares. “Am I a druggie? Did I not graduate from college?”

“You’re comparing apples and oranges. We’re not talking about that. You need to stop wearing those T-shirts. Even Bree, who’s only eight-years-old, wouldn’t be caught dead wearing those. Sarah…”

“That’s great for Bree,” I all but hiss. I could care less about what my eight-year-old second cousin will or will not do. I know the kind of person that I am and want to be. And I could seriously care less about trends.

My mom is still telling me about how they want me to wear something else for when we go to the Philippines. I have half a mind to say, “Fine, screw it. I won’t go.” Why do they insist on making me uncomfortable? Do they think I don’t know how to distinguish what is appropriate to wear in public and what isn’t? Do they have any idea how much respect people don’t give to women who dress like they’re constantly at a party or a bar?

“You don’t dress like a college graduate.” Keep going, Mom. This conversation is just getting better and better and is really making me want to pack up and leave.

The second she pulls into a parking space, I’m out of the car. She doesn’t even have the chance to put the car in park.

“You always get so angry when we talk about this. We just want you to take care of your appearance.”

Angry? You think I’m angry? I’m pretty sure my emotions can better be described as “pissed as hell”. How about bitter? Bitter’s another good one. My favorite one is “hurt”. There’s this burning inside and I clench my jaw. I never say anything in anger because it only hurts people. No matter how true it is. The burning is behind my eyes now. Oh fuck you. I’ll be damned if I start crying in the middle of a parking lot.

I walk ahead. She’s still talking about this. It would be different if my mom didn’t sound just as pissed. That’s just how she is, though. It’s not like she’s trying to hurt me. I know she’s frustrated. That doesn’t mean it burns any less.

“Fine. I have plenty of student teaching clothes, I’ll wear those.” My tone is just as hostile.

“I’m not talking about that kind of clothes.”

I really really wish I had just ordered Season 4 of Gilmore Girls on Amazon. It would have saved me this public conversation.

There’s a little more arguing before I just storm off. I absolutely refuse to keep this up. I need to cool off. I think she takes the hint. We wander. I distract myself with the chocolate fountain on sale for $39.99 (that’s right folks, you too could be the proud owner of a chocolate fountain for the low low price of $39.99) and find myself walking around the DVD section.

I find what I came for and pick it up. I’m passive agressive and I know it. I don’t like public scenes so I just keep the burning from surfacing again. I saunter over to our cart and put the collection in. My mom is talking to my dad on the phone about the price of steaks.

She asks me if I wanted to pick up blank CDs. The tension has been suppresed by both of us for the time being.

When we’re driving back, there’s still residual tension emmiting from me. Her arm is resting close to mine and I move away. She inches a little closer and I just shift. We have never been a touchy feely family and it’s hard for me to break that kind of conditioning.

Passive agressive.

I manage to suppress the tears for a little while longer. I sit down in front of John and open this journal. Half way through writing the first sentence, the burning gets the better of me and I’m crying bitterly. Why can’t they just let me be happy this way? A scenario in my head plays where I buy all these trendy clothes and make-up and ask them: “Happy now? Cuz I’m not.”

I’ll go shopping. I know I will. What I don’t tell my mom is that I was thinking of going to Carson Pierre Scott this afternoon and going to the Lancome booth because I know a girl who works there and she said she would help me pick out make-up. What I don’t tell my mom is that I know I have this interview tomorrow and I was going to ask to borrow some make-up. What I don’t tell my mom is that I wanted to go shopping on Saturday.

Now it’s just going to be out of spite.

Who wants to be a Cosmo Girl?

Tentative. Comfortable. Unconscious.

I don’t even realize I’m leaning into him until I feel his hand on the back of my shoulder.

Part of me wants to wrench myself from his touch. Not out of revulsion but for us. After three years, I can’t let this happen. I refuse to let this happen.

Three years.

What would have happened if I hadn’t broken up with him? Would he and I be married? Would I have buried certain feelings until they were smothered and killed…or until they reared up at the worst possible time and potentially ruined our relationship?

No. It’s better this way. There’s nothing between us. No secrets.

I get up from the bench and try not to think about the last time he and I were in a bookstore together. I retreat quickly from him and we wander our seperate ways. I head upstairs while he goes to look at more books.

I find Serenity. I find a clerk and I hold Serenity in my hands. I am excited when I thrust it into his hands.

“You don’t have to…”

I cut him off with a wave. “I want to. Call it making up for all the cookies I never sent.” We share a smile and there’s a moment that passes between us that I wish hadn’t. Every time we start this I second guess my decision.

And every time I start thinking like this I remind myself that if I were attached I wouldn’t be taking this adventure. That things would be difficult for us…for me. This is for the best. This is for both of us.

We’re friends. We’ll always be friends.

And I’ll always wonder…