Kristine Joy, Writer

This was written for a writing class in which we had to mimic the style of a piece by Jacqueline Woodson.

Preamble: I will create a first person older/younger narrator. I will jump right into a dramatic or frightening childhood situation, in medias res, using matter of fact language. I will write three sections in total, each being able to stand on its own as a small story.

Dedicated to the best Daughter that a Mother could ask for, and her Dad, who may come across as a “Colonel” here and there but is the epitome of ^_tough LOVE. This is not dedicated to Shane because he is made up. And the “home away from home” being dreadfully different and dungeonesque is excessively exaggerated. Their house is actually much nicer than ours; especially the pool.

One

My Dad threatened my Mom about how hard life would be without him. I tried to understand for the both of us, but didn’t. I sat in my bedroom attempting to hold back tears but they welled anyway. My Dad had just told my baby brother and I that he and my Mom weren’t going to be our Mom and Dad anymore. Who was going to be our Mom and Dad? I heard the door slam, and went to my window. I watched my Dad drive away. Where was he going? Would we ever see him again? Shane squeezed my hand and stared up at me.

I was four years old.

I ran out of my room, sobbing, Shane in tow, to see if my Mom was still there. I jumped into her arms, and put her in a death grip to the extent that someone of my size was capable. Shane kept asking, “Mommy, why Emmy crying? Boo-boo?” I don’t remember how long she held onto me, but my fear for a life unknown spiraled in those hours. It would take me years to understand that my Dad had been wrong. We lost Mom and Dad that day, but not Mom or Dad. But that was the only silver lining.

Two

When I was seven years old, I remember having to drive to an exchange on Thanksgiving morning. I wailed like a fire engine from the backseat for the entire 30 minute drive. “I don’t want to go. Why can’t we stay with you and Grandma and Grandpa?” My Mom explained that we were safe and loved at our Dad’s house. Her words were delivered in a calm demeanor, but threw gas on the fire within me. 

Shane didn’t help our cause; he never did. He just sat there quietly accepting our fate of being repeatedly torn from our life and temporarily put into another that was supposed to feel like home, but instead, was like living on another planet. The food smelled different. The dogs had different names. There was a billiard room, and a library, and a study as if we were dropped into a game of Clue and had to figure out how to navigate the board without instructions and without Shane or I upsetting the Colonel. And the lighting in my cold room (I don’t remember a dungeon room in Clue but that’s what it seemed like) produced shadows that kept me awake at night. I could overhear my Dad on the phone with my Mom, “Is she not getting enough sleep at your house? We can’t get her out of bed here. Why is she always tired?” As if it was her fault that their house wasn’t a home (to me).

Three

I couldn’t seem to stop my fingers from typing. The writing assignment had been to create a dictionary of our life, with one word for each letter and I was on D for Divorce. I was fifteen years old. Emotions poured out of me like a pitcher of lemonade spilling over ice on a hot day. I hated having parents that were divorced and a childhood in which the only constants were the back and forth (oxymoronic, I know) and Shane’s blank stare. Snap out of it, I’d beg of him. And they never once explained it to us. I was in the midst of typing this fact when my words per minute slowed and for the first time, I wondered if Shane blamed himself like I did myself.