My Family by Melissa Jackson

         My father is a proud racist.

         He hates black people, which is odd considering he was born in Atlanta, Georgia, May 14, 1968, to Mildred and Trevor Jackson – two very black and proud African-Americans. Why, Trevor Jackson, my grandpa, was a former pastor in the community, a member of the NAACP and could regale you with tales of his days walking and working with the great late Reverend Martin Luther King. My grandma, Mildred, had been in charge of providing the snacks at such gatherings; something she was also darn proud of. She could make a mean set of chocolate chip cookies, a recipe she said had been passed down from generations on her side of the family. She still refuses to tell me the secret ingredient that makes it so delicious even though I'm her granddaughter. According to her, I'm not old enough to know about it, and when I have big enough breasts and a good man to present as a future grandson-in-law, then she could discuss it with me.

         I'm still thirteen, so I guess that day is a long time coming. My chest is still as flat as a pancake and I have a feeling it will remain that way for goodness knows how long.

         However, let's go back to my father.

         When he's not on the road, you are most likely to find him before the T.V, mumbling about how the black people seem out to get him. Just last week, he accused our next-door neighbors (black folks) that their loud gospel music was hurting his eardrums while spilling communist propaganda to convert more people to join their underground army. He could swear their cute white poodles were targeted to maim or kill him since they always barked whenever he came out of the house to pick up the mail or mow his lawn. In response to my dad's threats, Mr. Harrison (who is actually quite nice and has a great voice when singing in church) has asked my dad to pack up his things and leave the neighborhood if he didn't like it. He had the right to sing however he darned well pleased, and to emphasize his point, Mr. Harrison had another family get-together with a barbecue and everything in his front yard. The whole street was invited. I would have liked to go, but Dad had pulled me in, barred the doors and windows and forbade me to even listen to the loud music. In his words, the Democrats and Communists were slowly but surely taking over the goddamn country.

         No joke. I can't make this stuff up.

         I worry that my father has a severe case of lost personality race disorder (LPRD), something my grandparents are completely baffled about. No matter how many times Grandma Mildred sits him down and points out some childhood pictures to him, my father insists that it's someone else entirely. I dared to ask my grandmother if Dad had been bullied a lot as a child, but Grandma Mildred wasn't quite sure.

         "He gets along fine with them friends of his," she'd say, before leaning close to whisper in my ear. "Ah think he gets his madness from his papa." She would nod sagely before going back to knitting a shocking pink sweater for her favorite delusional son. Of course pointing out that Dad would never wear the horrible-looking thing was going to fall on deaf ears. Literally. My grandma is half-deaf. My grandpa is completely deaf...well almost. You always have to yell to get him to hear anything you have to say. Therefore, I decided to ask my grandpa about Dad's childhood.

         I found him sitting in the living room, watching Jeopardy with Alex Trebek who was asking the contestants something about a ship landing on the shores of America. Granddad's rocking chair was gently swaying back and forth in the large room and I sat at his feet (I always like doing that even though he smells like mothballs and wet socks most of the time). His favorite baby blue blanket was draped around him with its edges now ragged and worn with age. I decided there and then that I'd buy him a new one for Christmas, what with all the pocket money I've been saving all year.

         "Granddad," I began, as the show went to commercials. "What was Dad like as a child?"

         No answer, not surprising, so I tried again.

         "GRANDDAD! WHAT WAS DAD LIKE AS A CHILD?!"

         "WHAT? THE NAZIS ARE COMING?!"

         "NO! DAD!"

         "THE DEAD?!"

         "NO, DADDY! WHAT WAS DADDY LIKE?!"

         "GO MAKE ME SOME BREAKFAST, DENISE! AH'M STARVING!"

         (My name is not Denise actually)

         "IT'S ALMOST DINNER TIME, GRANDAD!"

         "SLANDERTIME?!"

         "DINNER!"

         "OH! AH REMEMBER MARTIN! WHY BACK IN THE DAY, WE USED TO MARCH ALL O'ER SALEM..."

         I tuned him off. There was no use talking to Grandpa when he was like that. Deaf as ever. I rose to my feet, leaving him to chat to the room about his exploits during the Civil Rights movement. I've heard the story before and can quote you on it word for word, so don't feel too bad for him.

         My beautiful mother was in the garden, buried up to her shin in dirt and with a disgruntled look on her face. As you can guess, she's white but you'd hardly know at first glance with how tanned she looked and the way she talked sometimes.

         Dad had attempted to fix up a leak in the kitchen sink, but had succeeded in plugging up the toilets all over the house, so we couldn't use them until a real plumber came along. Unfortunately, the only good plumber around here was a black person (Mr. Donald), and Daddy was hell-bent on the Communist not showing up on his doorstep. As you can imagine, my mother was pissed off at Dad, and Dad took the opportunity to escape by going to hunt for a better (translation: white) plumber who was so much further away.

         "Mom," I asked while helping to arrange the small bulbs of tulips. "Why did you marry Dad?"

         She sat up with a blank look, as if pondering just why she had ever agreed to commit herself to a man who should be committed to a mental institution. I get my green eyes from her, the rest is from my dad, which has made my features quite popular in school. I have a lot of cool friends and God forbid my father realizes that I actually talk to black kids, he'd throw a fit, have a heart attack or both. I can never bring them home...at least when he's in town.

         "Well, Marion was adorable," my mother finally replied with a small smile. "No signs of acting all cuckoo, but he intrigued me I guess. He was very smart too."

         "Did he have black friends?"

         She laughed and nodded. "Believe it or not, he did."

         "So why does he hate them so much now?" I was quite confused.

         She reached out to brush away a curly strand of hair from my face, in the process rubbing off a smudge of dirt across my forehead. "Oh, don't worry too much about your father. Hopefully the mad genes will skip a generation and you don't wake up one morning singing the Star-Spangled Banner in your underwear and frothing at the mouth."

         Has she been reading my thoughts?! My worst fears have been confirmed!

         I ran to my bathroom and checked in the mirror frantically. No. I still looked normal, but for how long, I had to wonder. I crawled into bed and closed my eyes, allowing the sounds of another winding day to fill my ears. I had to hold my bowels until the toilets were fixed, while listening to Mom and my grandparents have their usual evening conversation:

         "SWEET YAMS, MA! WE'RE HAVING SWEET YAMS FOR DINNER. TELL PA!"

         "NO NEED TO SHOUT! WE'RE NOT DEAF YOU KNOW! PASTA DID YOU SAY, HON?!"

         "YAMS!"

         "SHE SAYS WE'RE HAVING SPAGHETTI, TREVOR!"

         "MY LETTER?!"

         "SPAGHETTI!!"

         "NO...YAMS! AH, TO HELL WITH IT!"

         "WASH OUT YOUR MOUTH WITH SOAP, BETHANY! AH CAN STILL WHOOP YOUR BEHIND, MISSY!"

         Who says there's no excitement in the Jackson household, eh? And what was that deafening sound? Well, it was the put-put-put and then bang! Of my father's 87 Cadillac finally choking on its last breath as it drove up the street. Just about everyone in the neighborhood is familiar with that clunky cacophony and they've long given up running to their windows or coming out to the street (some with shotguns just in case) to see what the commotion was about. I sighed and got out of bed, flexing my muscles in preparation for another unwanted exercise. Together, we'd have to push the old jalopy into the garage and wait for him to find a good mechanic to get it fixed. No use trying to suggest Old Harold across the street. Why, he was just another Communist set out to terrorize my father.

         I found it ironic that we lived in a neighborhood where its population was half-black and half-white. We were well-to-do by most standards and my father's job as a sales representative has him sweet-talking his way into people's hearts across the country. I wondered if the job was finally getting to him. I mean, after trying to sell so much household products, maybe the chemicals got to your brain and messed up the cells or something.

         I watched my father wipe the sweat from his brow and eye his beloved mode of transportation. The white plumber (who had helped us push the car) was already working his magic in the house – thank goodness – but Dad was still too scared of facing Mom's wrath and decided to stay in the garage to tinker with the car (he's no mechanic let me tell you). My father still looked as handsome as he did in his younger days, and watching him now in the cluttered garage, his features sleek with sweat and grime, I felt my heart burst with love for him. In his silence, he could almost pass for a normal human being, and I knew that he loved and cared for me despite his crazy tendencies.

         I ran into his arms and hugged him tightly, smiling at his surprised gasp at my sudden display of affection. He patted my hair gently and hugged me back.

         "I love you, Dad," I whispered, really, really meaning it.

         "And I love you too, sweetie." He finally held me at arms length, brown eyes alight with pleasure and that twinkle that I'm all too familiar with. "Guess what?"

         "What?"

         "I've been giving this a lot of thought and..." He takes a deep breath, before blurting out in a rush. "How does moving to the Sudan sound to you?"

         Huh?

         He grinned and waved his hands about. "We'll be free from the...bla...them. So what do you say? Think your Mom will like that? I hear the housing is quite cheap."

         Not if you have a death wish.

         "Sounds exciting, Dad," I say with a smile, only to add quickly. "You do know that there are black people in the Sudan too, right?"

         My Dad stopped unfurling the world map he was getting from the trunk, looked pale, worked his jaw for a moment and then stamped his foot in frustration.

         "Goddamn it! They're everywhere!"

         With a consistent murmur beneath his breath about the blacks eventually taking over the world, he stormed back into the house, leaving me to breathe in the Cadillac's lingering fumes and the pleasant familiar scent of a typical suburbia autumn.

         Ah, bliss. It was, after all, just another day in my life. And, you know what? Even though I think my whole family might be crazy (and I just might end up being insane too), I still love them all very, very much.