Becoming Brett

11. Darkness

My house is the equivalent to detention but like if detention had no idea it wasn't fun.

I don't have video games. There's one tv, in the living room, definitely not in my bedroom. That would be outrageous.

For the longest time the only computer I was allowed to use was fixated at a small desk in this weird nook off the kitchen, right in the middle of traffic flow. Luckily it's just my parents and I. No pets, what's the point. So there isn't a lot of traffic. But more than that, the start of this year they got me a laptop and I'm allowed to have it in my room.

Sounds boring, I know. We do have a lot of cool things though. Like enough instruments to outfit a orchestra. And then weapons, which are less cool. I actually don't find them cool at all which creates a nice block in the whole father son bonding experience. At least we have baseball, just kidding I hate that too.

So I read a lot.

I'm currently working my way through everything that Langston Hughes ever wrote. I read one of his poems in a book about black author's. There was something about the way he wrote, the way he spoke, that beckoned me to more of his works.

My room is so stiff, impeccably clean as if I was a soldier in basic camp waiting for inspection at any given time. I hate it. It's stifling. So when I find an author that transports me into my thoughts, into their world, I find myself crawling into the back corner of my closet. There's plenty of space because not even my closet is a mess. But there's something about being swallowed by the dark, in the safety of the small cubby that my overhanging clothes and the shallow walls creates. It feels safe. It feels a little bit like freedom, ironically enough. At least for me.

There's something about being immersed in darkness with just the glow of my reading light clipped to the book to illuminate the pages that allows my mind to bring everything to life that the author wrote. I don't have to be anything or anyone. I don't have to be me. In fact I'm no longer anything as I lose myself in the pages of the book, I become whatever the author wants.

My dad thinks it's weird that I do this. My mom too but she doesn't voice it. She just gives me that look, the one where she thinks I might have a screw loose.

But sometimes I need a break from reality. A break from being me. Sometimes I need to be the brooding man that sits at the bar and flirts with the young waitress even though he's got a family at home but he can't help it because he just lost his job in the middle of the Great Depression and he's got nothing going for him and he's just trying to escape his reality for a moment. Or I need to roll my pant legs up and dash through the water to escape whatever went south, adrenaline pumping through my veins, a blend of excitement and terror but nevertheless it awakens every sleeping nerve in my body. And sometimes I need to love the person I know I shouldn't openly.

And books let me.

"Brett." The slatted wood doors of my closet rattle. "You in there?"

I'm torn from the pages of the book, slowly separating myself from Sandy and his life in Kansas as I shift my focus to the blackness that surrounds me.

"Yes sir." I answer.

"Dinner will be ready soon." My dad's voice spills through the small slats, invading my little sanctuary. "Why don't you come on out."

Demand. Not request.

"I'll be right out." I tell him.

But really I want nothing more than to go back to my book. To Sandy as he navigates his young life as a black boy in a white world in the early 1900s.

It's hard to have pride for who you are when there's hate spread against you.

Not that I know firsthand. But I've seen what happens when people don't hide anymore or when people can't hide. When their differences are laid out for the world to see. At least I'm lucky in that respect. The only way people are going to know I'm different is if I slip up and out myself.

And that won't happen.

So I flick off my reading light and nudge open the slatted doors. Climbing out, my limbs are stiff from the time I spent curled up reading, screaming in protest as they flex and shift until I drag myself to my feet. 

"Don't you think you're a little old for that son?" I jump, my dad hovering quietly in my doorway as he regards me with knit eyebrows.

Tension tightens my muscles and I let out a strained breath. "I-I like that it's dark. Less distracting."

I've given him so many reasons throughout the years, apparently none of them suffice.

He breezes past my explanation, "well come on, let's go help mom with the rest of dinner."

Placing my book down on my nightstand, I give my dad a small smile as I pass by him. He doesn't tower over me, in fact we're close to the same height but at the same time I feel meek in his presence. Small and fragile and inadequate.

He ruffles his fingers through my mess of curls, my glasses getting knocked slightly askew, my vision blurring. I right them with my finger as my dad says "I love you kid."

"Love you too dad."

My mom's pulling out three of everything to set the table when we enter and without being prompted again, I take the stack of plates from her.

"Thank you sweetheart." She smiles warmly, green eyes that match mine looking back at me.

My mom is fair, milky white skin that is so clear of imperfections it almost doesn't look real and warm mahogany hair that she keeps pulled back in a bun. She's slight, with delicate bones and a thin frame that hides under loose fitting clothes. She's modest and pure and loyal to her core. To my dad anyway. I'm not exactly sure how far her loyalty extends.

My parents fit together, with one another. They look like a couple, like two people who would find each other against all odds. My dad's strong, realistic, self assured demeanor balances my mom's more creative introverted self.

And somehow they made me.

And I'm not sure how I fit into their pair. Or if I fit at all.

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I have nothing to say. 😳