"What I Did with My Inheritance"
There are days when I am reminded that,
more than anything, more than all of my efforts,
I am my father’s daughter.
I have his face, his bad feet,
and his impressively high alcohol tolerance.
I look in the mirror and see him in the curve of my cheeks,
in the shape of my eyes,
in the pale undertone of my decidedly brown skin. I smile.
He is there too, always, and this then reminds me
that he is also in every frown, in every scowl, in every grimace.
I am my father’s daughter, and I carry within me the very sadness he carried,
the DNA of his compulsions, his struggles, his self-loathing.
I have his violence in my veins, a fury that I’ve never quite understood.
But sometimes I throw things. And I feel better.
I realize that that is where it ends.
At some point,
I stop being defined by what I inherited.
This is where I come in.
The violence still bubbles under my skin sometimes,
and I almost always drink too little for my liking.
I thank God for giving me
a quiet, calm, and gentle nature.
It is my shield, my internal compass,
lest I become the very monster
that haunted my childhood dreams:
a loving person who, despite his most fervent wishes,
turned against those he loved-his sister, his brothers, his wife-
his anger irrepressible, fueled by alcohol and late-night binges,
using the very hands he drew beautiful things with to hit them,
hurt them,
and maybe even break them.
I wish I could have asked why.
I have forgiven but not forgotten.
And every time I manage to overcome the seething,
that sudden burning need to hurt people or destroy things,
when I channel that uncontrollable urge
to break someone
(because oh, I know I can)
into something a little less vicious,
something a little more reasonable,
or even kind,
I know that I have already won.
(September 16, 2013)