by Denise Wakefield
On my first day of kindergarten at Thomas Jefferson Elementary School in Burbank, California, I was so excited I pushed my mother’s hand away before she could say goodbye. Taking my seat on the carpeted floor, I felt free. Many of my peers sobbed uncontrollably, but I was elated.
My parents, both school teachers, pressured me to meet their expectations: Listen. Behave. Keep quiet. I willfully challenged their authority. My sister, who was younger and wiser, told me to just shut up and listen, knowing the punishment for talking back was gagging on a bar of soap. And yet, I couldn’t help myself. When I really misbehaved (like swearing), my father would put me over his lap and use the “fanny paddle.” I knew he loved me, and he never hit hard. And though I hated being spanked, I would laugh, frustrating him even more.
My mother was a bilingual kindergarten teacher. All day long she talked to kindergartners who needed direction. Throughout my life, she treated me like one of those students. Her mouth never stopped moving, dictating instructions. “Brush your teeth. Put on your socks. Sit still, don’t fidget. Your laces are untied!” And when I was a teenager, before I could go out, she’d run her hand across my back to make sure I was wearing a bra, even though I didn’t need one. She felt it was sinful to show even a hint of a nipple.
Her favorite phrase was, “Why aren’t you listening to me?”
Because I tuned you out, Mom.
My mother wore a metal whistle on a long chain around her neck, as if it were a piece of jewelry. When dinner was ready, she stood on our front porch and blew that whistle. If I didn’t return immediately, I’d be sent to my room without dinner.
Like every child throughout history, I’d scream, “It’s not fair.”
In third grade, my teacher selected me for the school’s music program. The following year, when I wanted to continue with the violin, my parents arranged private lessons. They often reminded me that lessons were expensive, and insisted I practice every day. What had once been fun was now torture. They timed me, and if I stopped practicing early, my father would yell, “You’re not done yet, get back in your room.” And though I fumed, I complied—most of the time.
My mother was fluent in Spanish and wanted me to be proficient. She thought that taking a vacation together to Mexico would help. She insisted that we converse only in Spanish and refused to respond when I spoke to her in English. For two weeks we hardly talked to each other, which was fine by me.
During that trip, whenever she had the opportunity, she’d recount her life story. To strangers. Endlessly, as long as they paid attention. When a hotel employee invited us to her home for dinner, it was the first time I saw my mother get blitzed as she downed shots of tequila. Another afternoon, she met two fishermen along the wharf. They welcomed us onto their rickety boat, and before I knew it, we headed out to sea. There we were, alone in the middle of the ocean with no sight of land. I became silent and withdrawn, for I was certain that the boat was sinking and we’d drown (we didn’t), and that these men were planning to rob and murder us (they didn’t). On the plane home, my mother—realizing the risky thing she had done—whispered, “Please don’t tell your father.”
My father loved math more than anything. He was an absent-minded-professor type who worked at the high school across town. He rarely combed his hair, and often wore two different shoes or socks, misbuttoned his shirt, or left his fly half-zipped. When he came home from work, he’d be covered in chalk dust.
Every night, he’d check my homework. When I couldn’t solve a problem, he’d theatrically pound his head with his palm and growl, “Think, think, think!” Under that kind of pressure, I couldn’t, and I wanted to cry and run away.
My father knew all the teachers at my high school—his undercover agents. They would alert him when my performance didn’t match my “potential.” My defense? “Class was so boring.”
In the evening, my father offered free tutoring to neighborhood children, and they’d all sit around the kitchen table across from where I was forced to do my homework. Repeatedly, I’d hear him explain the same problems to different groups of students. Through osmosis, I became proficient in math and started getting As. My parents encouraged me to consider becoming a teacher or mathematician.
Sure, Dad. When hell freezes over.
For college, I applied only to schools far away from home. When I moved into the dorm, I felt something similar to how I felt when I started kindergarten. Free. Better, I had the privileges of an adult, or so I thought. My grades suffered until I realized it was up to me to make something of my life. I buckled down and graduated. Despite my best intentions, I ended up in finance and spent my days working with numbers.
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