Memory Documentation

chapter two | documenting trying with courage

I snorted. "Oh, yeah? Couldn't tell."

He grumbled a remark beneath his breath and I nudged him back in retaliation. "Well, we're up now. Breakfast or TV?"

His lips thinned for just a moment. "Actually," he started, "I think we need to talk."

This time, it was my turn to groan. "It's too early for lecturing. Why can't we ju–"

"Darcy."

My mouth snapped shut. There it was – that tone. I knew better than to speak when he pulled that card on me. It meant zero funny business. Ears open, mouth closed. He took my silence as a signal to continue. "Now, listen to me. I know you've been telling everyone at the Brew that I'm this mean old grouch hounding you down, as if it's a bad thing I'm pushing you to push yourself. I want that to stop, understand?"

Heat quickly began to crawl up my neck, burning my cheeks. I nodded, but kept silent. I had a strong inkling to where this conversation was going, and I silently cursed myself for it. I should have known he wouldn't fall for my ways a second time.

As if he could read my thoughts, he sighed and said, "Don't think I don't see the parallels, honey. You did this before, and now you're doing it again. In California, you threw yourself into whatever job you could get. You told me you'd start looking into clubs, try and be more social. Then I find out from Mrs. Abaroa that you've been eating in different teachers' classrooms since sixth grade?"

My whole body was burning now. Mrs. Abaroa was my high school Spanish teacher back in California who I took during my first two years. I ate lunch with her whenever she was free. Eventually, I opened up to her about how I felt more comfortable with adults than people my age, and how I'd been eating in the classrooms of my favorite teachers since I moved to California when I was eleven. Then, it was her. In middle school, it was Mr. Abel and Miss. Hines. Now, it was Mrs. Ichikawa.

"Now, if you want to look back at your school years and only remember this, then all right. I won't push any longer." He said it with such an air of finality that I figured he was done. My head had slowly dropped with every piece of exposure, I could almost touch my chin to my chest.

My voice downsized to only a whimper. "I'm sorry, Papa."

I've developed a habit of using my braid to channel my stress and anxiety into. I tugged at the ends, put my fingers through the holes, twisted it around, transferred it from one shoulder to the other. I've purposely kept it long all these years because of it. It happens so instinctively now that, in moments like now, I don't realize I'm doing it. Only when Papa took my hand in his and squeezed did I see. With my fingers restrained, they felt like school children hanging on every tick of the clock: antsy and restless.

"Darcy." He squeezed my hands again and urged me to meet his gaze. I did so, reluctant, but felt the nerves in my fingers dim when I saw the softness in his blue eyes. "The very thing that allows or prevents you from doing something is whether you believe in yourself. With belief and bravery, you can do more of what you set your heart on. Don't think you can do something? Ask why not. You know I understand why you have this preference. I hoped you would overcome it with time, but you've hid within your fears instead. I don't want it to manifest and hurt you later, so all I ask of you is to try."

"Yes, Papa," I responded feebly, my head dropping again. Papa was always so aware of how my past affected my today, and these "preferences" of mine had deep roots. I'm certainly not helping myself with the way I'm handling things. But those memories were so painful, it makes my chest hurt to think of them. I didn't want to think of them, but that's hard to avoid when you have to think of your fears when facing them.