The Navel Ring Catharsis
February 14, 2008
My father twisted my arm blue after discovering that I wear a navel ring.
I argued that I have had the navel ring for six years now and that I believe he knew about it after I’ve had it for three years.
He, out of the blue, launched into a litany of ridiculous accusations, even associating me with the ‘whorish women he sees in the streets’ and telling me, with point blank assurance, that no person—men, most especially—shall never pay me any form of respect or regard.
Yes. All these blind and unfounded shit were slapped square on my face all because I wear a godforsaken navel ring.
I stood there by the dinner table, taking it all in as he threw one insult after another.
My mother, in the process, just sat quietly before her plate of apples, munching as if nonchalantly.
I finally crumbled and gave in. I told my father that it is surprising how he lectures me about false judgments and here he is basically naming me a whore all because of the stupid ring I wear on my navel. I stressed that he knows ‘I am no whore.’ and there is no point or reason of him labeling me as such.
Immediately, he grabbed me by the arm and my backpack and dragged me from the kitchen to the stairs. I yanked myself away from his clutch only to have my arm twisted blue in the process. After I caved in, he swung a slipper to my head but missed my left cheek. He screamed at me to shut up or else the neighbors will hear.
My mother appeared in the background, closing windows and sliding doors. Afterwards, she stood and watched from a distance.
Perhaps she must have heard me crying behind the home library door after it was all over. But she never came to assure me that none of the hurtful things my father had said to me were true and that things should be all right in the morning.
Instead, I heard her slippers softly padding down the hallway and a door creaking then closing.
He could have asked me to just take it out and never wear it again because he believes a navel ring is not me.
But instead, this: a streak of blue and orange on my arm.
And my father complains to my psychiatrist that he doesn’t know his own child.
And he complains to the whole world why I do my homework, locked up in my room, while a weekend family party is bustling in the gardens outside.
And he complains why I choose to shut up regardless of a thousand problems he sees looming over my head.
Go figure, Daddy.
Happy Valentine’s Day, all.
My father twisted my arm blue after discovering that I wear a navel ring.
I argued that I have had the navel ring for six years now and that I believe he knew about it after I’ve had it for three years.
He, out of the blue, launched into a litany of ridiculous accusations, even associating me with the ‘whorish women he sees in the streets’ and telling me, with point blank assurance, that no person—men, most especially—shall never pay me any form of respect or regard.
Yes. All these blind and unfounded shit were slapped square on my face all because I wear a godforsaken navel ring.
I stood there by the dinner table, taking it all in as he threw one insult after another.
My mother, in the process, just sat quietly before her plate of apples, munching as if nonchalantly.
I finally crumbled and gave in. I told my father that it is surprising how he lectures me about false judgments and here he is basically naming me a whore all because of the stupid ring I wear on my navel. I stressed that he knows ‘I am no whore.’ and there is no point or reason of him labeling me as such.
Immediately, he grabbed me by the arm and my backpack and dragged me from the kitchen to the stairs. I yanked myself away from his clutch only to have my arm twisted blue in the process. After I caved in, he swung a slipper to my head but missed my left cheek. He screamed at me to shut up or else the neighbors will hear.
My mother appeared in the background, closing windows and sliding doors. Afterwards, she stood and watched from a distance.
Perhaps she must have heard me crying behind the home library door after it was all over. But she never came to assure me that none of the hurtful things my father had said to me were true and that things should be all right in the morning.
Instead, I heard her slippers softly padding down the hallway and a door creaking then closing.
He could have asked me to just take it out and never wear it again because he believes a navel ring is not me.
But instead, this: a streak of blue and orange on my arm.
And my father complains to my psychiatrist that he doesn’t know his own child.
And he complains to the whole world why I do my homework, locked up in my room, while a weekend family party is bustling in the gardens outside.
And he complains why I choose to shut up regardless of a thousand problems he sees looming over my head.
Go figure, Daddy.
Happy Valentine’s Day, all.
