Whacking Father

Anton swings his right pinky and I come towards him. That’s how people call me, “Jay”.

*

My father is a person with tentative temperaments, but that has made me a person with an inevitable temperament. When I was in secondary, I had seen him very vulnerable, like a sinner who didn’t let go of his domestic power. He often looked silly and nauseous, like a person who knew things but abruptly denied his knowledge for the sake of pride. I didn’t know why he was like that. All I realized was that I felt so angry at him; for my mother was let down by him. But I didn’t know what to do with my anger. My father was too slick to handle or tackle. And I didn’t want to make my mother sadder. No one could help me, so no one could disturb me when I was angry. I would be extremely quiet until my anger settled down.

One day, to my very big surprise, he slapped me.

I didn’t know what I felt inside but I had been saving my money to buy an ATARI game cartridge – Joust. I wanted to wrap it with the best paper and tell this very handsome boy in my class to catch it in the farewell gift exchange session. And I would ask him to let me know which one was from him, so I could take it. I meant to give each other a souvenir in a very beautiful way. I also hoped we could go to the same high school after graduation; this was my only hope since I was not that close to him compared to other boys in the school, I was a nerd who obviously stalked him after school.

I didn’t know how to describe my feeling when I knew the cartridge was taken by a girl in my class. And I got a bottle of vitamin C, which was definitely from him. I just kept being extremely quiet and went home, locked myself inside my room and took all the tablets at once. And I didn’t know what happened next.

My father slapped me in the ears when I was back from the hospital. He pointed to my diary – filled with the name of the very handsome boy. The last time I saw him was when he kicked me out of the house the next day; I couldn’t hear what he said.

*

I have been ignoring Anton like a normal person pretending not to hear what he said. Still, he keeps trying to melt my heart with his fucking wisdoms about how you should treat your parents.

His right pinky now feels so abusive. That’s how people call me, indeed. So, I rush towards him. I don’t sign this time. I don’t care if he’s the one who raised me up twenty years ago. I scream so loud, grab his collar and push him to the wall. And I hit the wall repeatedly; hoping that he understands that so far I’ve been saying, “STOP! STOP IT!”

*

(Jakarta, 21 July 2006)