Schuler's Blog
DRUM CLASS / 03.13.09, 10:55 AM
West Side Christian School
Wednesday Afternoon
1
TAYLOR. Young. Maybe 9 years old. She sets her drumsticks down, soundlessly. Back of the room, engulfed in a sea of empty chairs. She cries. Her friend goes to her. I join. What’s wrong? The friend: You remind her of her dad. Cold, scared—thinking Oh shit… oh no… Jesus. Because when a girl cries because of her father, one, tragically, can assume there is a vivid, horrific rendering of past emotional or physical abuse playing through her mind and soul. [Dads are real bastards sometimes.] Giant waves in her eyes. I miss my dad. Over and over. She tells the story. Dad in Alabama. Even when he calls, when he hangs up she misses him all over again. Her hands are wet with tears. First time I’ve seen her without her glasses. I’m not the villain, happy about that, but I am still helpless. Sit. Ask what her dad is like. She perks up. Class ends, she promises to ask her mom if she can call soon. Hope her mom is nice. Hope her mom understands love. Trying to let myself feel it all. Sadness, the loneliness, frustration. I want her father to come back. Come back to Illinois, sir. Alabama is nothing compared to this daughter of yours. Come back.
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