By Meola Shaka

The Other Side: First Place Winner

We hardly ever spoke of any serious matters, of the questions that were buried or feelings that lingered, and maybe it was because we hardly spoke at all. My father and I only had frivolous conversations about the history of our ancestors or the fascinating world of biology. I asked him about the origin of mitochondrial DNA or if our people were always Muslim. He would answer with such ease, as if leafing through an encyclopedia stored deep in his brain. He spoke for hours and I never interrupted him. I wondered how long these conversations would keep us distracted.

He was the last person I told. It was easier to tell my mom and my brother because it wasn’t their approval I was looking for. If he could understand, It meant we were no longer pretending. It meant I could move on.

“Dad, I’m going to therapy,” I say, my voice trembling. 

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She called me into her room one Sunday afternoon. I was waiting to see her on top of a chair, pointing at a bug, or holding a frame she wanted to put up. But she was sitting on her bed fidgeting with the blanket under her. She asked if we could talk and my anxiety consumed me by the minute. Did she fail a class? Did she do something bad? Was she in danger? Even worse, was she pregnant?

But she tells me something worse. She tells me something that stings and it seems like she’s not just telling me, she’s pointing a finger up into my face and shaming the man I am. The father I’ve been. Or maybe she’s just telling me she’s going to therapy.

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Almost instantly, I witnessed his fight winning. There is a cloud of confusion covering his face and once again we stand on a minefield. We both know this place very well. My dad stands on the explosive, and I on the trigger. My words must be calculated, and he must stay far. 

“What do you need therapy for?” he asks.

There goes the million-dollar question. It is not curiosity that pushes him, it is anger. I see it in his face. In the way his eyebrows dart down and his mouth stays put. I have a million things to say but none will be sufficient. Should I bother answering?

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You think you give your child all they need to succeed in life. To not fall into the same traps you stuck your foot into. And then one beautiful Sunday afternoon, your child tells you they need therapy. You raise them on your blood and tears, you put less on your plate to fill theirs. You leave behind the life you built, the friendships you made, your job, and with it, your dignity; to bring them to a place where they won’t have to suffocate the way you did. A place where they can be whoever they wish to be and they won’t tuck their dreams away in fear. You don’t raise them the way you were raised. You don’t shun them or kick them out. You pride yourself on the way they’ve turned out. Even worse, you tell your friends,  I know my kid.

I know my kid like the back of my hand.

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I’m not happy, and I’m afraid I can’t remember the last time I was. Most nights, I don’t sleep and my eye bags are evident of that. You point them out frequently but you never ask. Waking up is too dreadful and I spent my days horizontally. My hair is matted and my teeth yellow. My stomach empty. I don’t paint anymore and the acrylic paint you bought me is collecting dust under my bed. You look shocked but this isn’t new to you. You tell me to get out of bed. You tell me my hair is a mess and you wonder when my last meal was. You yell at me for spending hours in the bathroom and you ask me why my eyes are bloodshot. It’s that damn phone. 

 But you always laugh, you say. Same way you do, I reply.

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I was the oldest sibling. Worked my ass off to bring every penny home. Sacrificed every dream I had, only to find out my parents would never be proud anyway. I lived through war. I had to endure because I had to survive. I left everything familiar behind. I brought you here with nothing to my name so you could have a better life. How could you be depressed? What did I not give or say? And after everything I’ve done for you, how could you tell me I failed you? 

“ I should’ve gone to therapy, not you”.

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“I wish you did ”.