Jeremy Hargrave

Lying awake in the middle of the night, there is a commotion outside. A man and a woman I do not know are across the street from one another, yelling over some domestic dispute I do not care about. It doesn’t matter to me; it’s just another night in the neighborhood, another moment of my life that will pass. I have school in the morning. My mother will wake me and get me started with my day. My father will get ready for work. She will make me breakfast, comb my hair, and send me out the door. He will be waiting to drive my brother and me to school. They do not interact. It’s for the best.

To understand the man I am today, I have to remember how I got here. We grew up in a less-than-ideal neighborhood, a place that might cause some to sink deeper. It didn’t affect me much; I was young, shy, and rarely left the house of my own volition. We still went on family walks around the block, so it couldn’t be that bad. It’s hard to recall what family looked like back then. My older brother was a constant; my mother and father were too, but not often in tandem. Sometimes I remember happy moments of the four of us: Christmas mornings, walks to the nearby water ice stand, family gatherings. But more in focus are the unhappy moments: a shattered fish tank, a bloody hand, cops at the house. I remember coming home from the morning bowling league with my father. I remember pulling into the driveway and immediately looking up at their bedroom window. I remember the relief I felt at seeing the shade still closed. It meant she is still in bed. It meant they won’t have to interact. It’s for the best.   

Memories with my father often involve trips to the grocery store, outings to the playground, and watching R-rated movies in the living room. He took me to do the fun things, the mundane things, and the necessary things. He pushed me to work hard, to get good grades in school, and to be successful. He taught me to be polite, to have manners, to be respectful. He taught me to be good.

Memories with my mother growing up elicit images of her making us Thursday night hot dogs, listening to Barbra Streisand on the stereo, and letting my brother and me watch wrestling. She nurtured me, took care of me when I was sick, and made sure I was happy. She pushed me to try my best, to get along with others, and to never give up. She taught me to love, to have empathy, to be kind. She taught be to be good.

I remember when they finally separated. My mother went to live with my grandparents, my brother and I stayed with my father for the time being. I remember not feeling sad about the separation. I remember not feeling sad that I wasn’t with my mom. I was relieved the fighting was over. Then one night it hit me. My brother and I were staying at my aunt’s house while my father looked for a new place to live. I remember lying awake, trying to sleep in an unfamiliar place, in an unfamiliar bed. Everything caught up to me. I tearfully asked my brother why mom and dad couldn’t just love each other and be together. He didn’t have an answer.

Lying awake in the middle of the night, there was no more commotion. The man and woman did not yell anymore. They won’t interact again. It’s for the best.