Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff (21 page)

But, as a child, I'd crept into his closet and modeled his wardrobe in front of the mirror. My imagination transformed his shirts into the robes of kings and his belts into soldiers' holsters. I slept in his undershirts and relied on the scent of his collars to calm my fear of the dark. Within a few years, though, I started wishing my father would trade his denim for khaki and retire his boots for loafers. I stopped sleeping in his clothes and eventually began dreaming of another father.

I blamed the way he dressed for my social failures. When boys bullied me, I thought they'd seen my father wearing his cowboy hat but no shirt while walking our dog. I felt that girls snickered at me because they'd glimpsed him mowing the grass in cut-offs and black boots. The girls' families paid men (and I believed better-dressed ones) to landscape their lawns, while their fathers yachted in the bay wearing lemon-yellow sweaters and expensive sandals.

My father only bought two suits in his life. He preferred clothes that allowed him the freedom to shimmy under cars and squeeze behind broken Maytags, where he felt most content. But the day before my parents' twentieth anniversary, he and I went to Sears, and he tried on suits all afternoon. With each one, he stepped to the mirror, smiled and nodded, then asked about the price and reached for another. He probably tried ten suits before we drove to a discount store and bought one without so much as approaching a fitting room. That night my mother said she'd never seen a more handsome man.

Later, though, he donned the same suit for my eighth-grade awards banquet, and I wished he'd stayed home. After the ceremony (I'd been voted Mr. Citizenship, of all things), he lauded my award and my character while changing into a faded red sweatsuit. He was stepping into the garage to wash a load of laundry when I asked what even at age fourteen struck me as cruel and wrong. “Why,” I asked, “don't you dress ‘nice,' like my friends' fathers?”

He held me with his sad, shocked eyes and searched for an answer. Then before he disappeared into the garage and closed the door between us, my father said, “I like my clothes.” An hour later my mother stormed into my room, slapped me hard across the face and called me an “ungrateful little twerp,” a phrase that echoed in my head until they resumed speaking to me.

In time they forgave me, and as I matured I realized that girls avoided me not because of my father but because of his son. I realized that my mother had slapped me because my father could not, and it soon became clear that what he had really said that night was that there are things more important than clothes. He'd said he couldn't spend a nickel on himself because there were things I wanted. That night, without another word, my father had said, “You're my son, and I sacrifice so your life will be better than mine.”

For my high-school graduation, my father arrived in a suit he and my mother had purchased earlier that day. Somehow he seemed taller, more handsome and imposing, and when he passed the other fathers they stepped out of his way. It wasn't the suit, of course, but the man. The doctors and lawyers recognized the confidence in his swagger, the pride in his eyes, and when they approached him, they did so with courtesy and respect. After we returned home, my father replaced the suit in the flimsy Sears garment bag, and I didn't see it again until his funeral.

I don't know what he was wearing when he died, but he was working, so he was in clothes he liked, and that comforts me. My mother thought of burying him in the suit from Sears, but I convinced her otherwise and soon delivered a pair of old jeans, a flannel shirt and his boots to the funeral home.

On the morning of the services, I used his pocketknife to carve another hole in his belt so it wouldn't droop around my waist. Then I took the suit from Sears out of his closet and changed into it. Eventually, I mustered the courage to study myself in his mirror where, with the exception of the suit, I appeared small and insignificant. Again, as in childhood, the clothes draped over my scrawny frame. My father's scent wafted up and caressed my face, but it failed to console me. I was uncertain: not about my father's stature—I'd stopped being an ungrateful little twerp years before. No, I was uncertain about myself, my own stature. And I stood there for some time, facing myself in my father's mirror, weeping and trying to imagine—as I will for the rest of my life—the day I'll grow into my father's clothes.

Bret Anthony Johnston

The Graduation Speech

Jesse was well liked by everyone, so everybody anticipated what he had to say

As he walked up to the microphone, on graduation day.

For a moment he remained silent, as he peered at the faces from his senior class,

And then Jesse leaned into the microphone, and finally spoke at last:

“As your class president, I'm here to speak to you today.

I was up most of the night, considering what words that I should say.

I reminisced on school days, and all the many things I've done,

So many memories came to mind, but my thoughts kept me focusing on one.”

And then Jesse held up a photo, and he moved it all around,

As everyone leaned to view it, and silence was the only sound.

You could have heard a pin drop, as Jesse placed the picture in full view,

And began talking of a classmate, that no one really knew.

“Charlie's life seemed meaningless, compared to yours and mine,

Because none of us understood him, we never took the time.

We saw onlywhat we wanted to, that Charlie was not cool,

He was far from being popular, the butt of all our jokes in school.

“That's what we knew of Charlie, that much we decided on our own,

He simply wasn't worth our time, he was an outsider who deserved to be alone.

But you see Charlie had a passion, deep within he had a dream,

It was his one desire, to play for our soccer team.

“And of course that was ludicrous, it was totally absurd,

Charlie was no athlete, he was the senior nerd.

In gym class he was never captain, he was always chosen last,

He was the poster child for unpopular, he preferred history, science and math.

“And so some of us took it upon ourselves to keep Charlie from wanting to play,

For weeks we taunted him with insults, day after day after day.

We made sure that he wasn't welcomed, by anyone else on the team,

For whatever foolish reasons, we were set on destroying his dream.

And I'm here now to tell you, as your class president, I was wrong

I'm here to speak for Charlie, who couldn't be here, because you see he's gone.”

Jesse paused just for a moment, to give time for his words to sink in,

As he looked about at the faces, of parents, teachers and friends.

“I'm not sure if all of you know it, I'm not sure if anyone cares,

But the reason Charlie isn't with us is a reason I feel I must share.

Cruel words they are definitely weapons, they destroyed Charlie's body and soul,

For all of the taunting and teasing left Charlie feeling out of control.

“And Charlie alone in a battle, gathered his weapons to fight.

He purchased some drugs from a dealer, his mother found his body last night.

Maybe it was only an accident, maybe Charlie wanted to die,

But no matter how it happened, we as his classmates know why.

For who in their lives hasn't been teased, or made to feel unbearable shame,

I'm certain that everyone in this room has endured some heartache and pain.

And maybe boys will be boys and girls will be girls, and we each have our battles to fight,

But no matter our justification, hurting Charlie was never right.”

And then Jesse took Charlie's picture and held it firm in his hand,

And spoke to the photo before him, words unrehearsed and unplanned.

“If only I'd helped somehow, given you guidance to conquer your dream,

If only a teacher, a classmate, if someone would have just intervened.

But I know I can never go back, I can never undo what has been,

For you will never receive your diploma, or ever play soccer again.

But deep in my heart I wonder, I can't help asking what if . . .

I would have reached out to you Charlie,

Would your school years have ended like this?”

Jesse stood lost in his thoughts, of a life that was ended too soon,

Until muffled coughs caught his attention, and nervous whispers began filling the room.

And then Jesse turned with a smile, before retreating back to his chair,

Teaching a valuable lesson, with his final words filling the air:

“I would like to introduce our valedictorian, he will be speaking today,

Please give him your full attention, please hear all that he has to say.”

And then Jesse set Charlie's picture down, on the podium facing the crowd,

As the silence told Charlie's story, a message quite convincingly loud.

Cheryl Costello-Forshey

The Purse

My mother always has the Purse with her. The Purse contains a receipt for everything she has purchased that cost more than twenty-five cents since around 1980. The Purse also contains at least one dose of every conceivable over-the-counter medication, all expired.

If you need something, more likely than not, it can be found in the Purse. Tissues? In the Purse. Breath mint? But, of course. Tweezers, nail polish remover, nail clippers, needle and thread, pens, pencils, calendar, calculator, paper clips, tiny stapler—all in the Purse.

The Purse started out a relatively normal size, but over the years it has expanded to what seems like two feet in width. It is hopelessly, permanently open and overflowing. If you need something, virtually everything in the Purse has to be removed and examined in order to locate it, usually onto the nearest park bench or desktop. Many great discoveries are often found during such expeditions into the Purse, like pieces of paper containing long-forgotten locker combinations or telephone messages that should have been returned three or four weeks ago.

My mom just can't bear to not know what I am up to at any given moment. For example, when I get home from school, I have to download everything that happened during the day. Over the years, she has developed expert interrogation techniques that enable her to remove every tiny detail of a day's events from my brain. No detail is too small or too insignificant or too boring for her. And the same applies when she is telling you a story about something that happened to her.

I think my mother's mind is kind of like the Purse inside—all jumbled up with tiny artifacts and useless items. Most of them have to come out and be spread around before you get to something good or what you were looking for, but when she does get to that one valuable thing, it is as if you have just won the lottery.

When I first started hanging out with Heather, it was mostly at school or on the weekends. I don't know why I didn't tell my mom about her. I guess I just wanted to keep something private, or maybe I didn't want her to make a big deal about it, or maybe I was afraid my mom, with the Purse, would want to meet Heather. I think it was mostly that.

And so, every day I would come home from school and proceed to tell my mom what happened in each class, between each class, at lunch and after school. I would be urged to disclose what happened on the way to school and on the way home from school and up until the very second that I walked into the house. But every day I would conveniently leave out all details about Heather.

This went on for a few months and I knew my mom was starting to get suspicious, but I just couldn't tell her about Heather. I didn't want to admit it to myself, but I was ashamed of my mother. It made it worse that she prided herself on the honesty we shared, telling her friends that I could tell her anything and it would be okay.

Since I mostly saw Heather in groups, I would tell my mom that I was going to the movies with Katrina and Steve and Trevor and Julian, but conveniently leaving out Heather. But one Saturday night I decided I wanted to see Heather alone. I wanted to go out on a real date with her. I had two choices: Either come clean and tell my mom about Heather, or lie. So I told my mom I was going to the movies with “some friends.” I don't know why I thought this would work. She wanted to know which friends, what movie, what theater, who was driving, what time, if it was an R-rated movie, where I was going afterward, what time I would be home and whether or not I planned on buying popcorn. She left me no choice. I lied to her, and once I got started, I couldn't stop. I lied about things that didn't matter. I told her I was going to buy Red Vines when I knew I wanted Raisinettes, and I told her the wrong movie at the wrong theater. I told her I was going with Katrina and Trevor. I told her Katrina's mom was driving.

And so I left the house with a pit in my stomach. I wasn't good at this lying thing, and I felt guilty. I walked to Heather's house, and we caught the bus to the movies. I don't even remember what movie we saw, but the whole time I could only think about the fact that I had lied to my mom. We came out of the movie holding hands and, to my complete horror, my mom was standing there with the Purse. She had decided to take my sister to a movie and since she didn't want to intrude on me with my friends, she had chosen a different theater than the one I had told her, which of course was the wrong one because I had lied.