Love Well

By Brandi K. Harris and Myranda Rogers

Through her collection of autobiographical short stories, author Brandi K. Harris paints a fragmented portrait of an ordinary person being loved in extraordinary ways. By finding her voice and telling us her story, Harris clears the path for others to reflect and do the same.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781678061739

Book preview

in.

Safe

My house was safe. My parents are nice. We had enough money. My mom stayed at home, was my Camp Fire leader, cooked all the meals and taught us how to clean the house. She took us to the library. We had a nice Cocker Spaniel. I got into little tiffs with my brother.

My dad worked in some sort of project management. At one point, he was employed by American Airlines, so we got to take advantage of flying free to Disney World, Alaska, and San Diego. We would fish and go camping in the summers and play Marco Polo in our white, middle-class neighborhood’s pool. We paraded through the streets on our bikes and trikes decorated with crepe paper for the Fourth of July.

My parents mostly got along. They operated in traditionally separate domains. Mom was inside the house cooking meals and taking care of children. Dad was outside the house bringing home the bacon and doing handyman work. We never really saw scuffles unless their territory overlapped: disagreeing over what time we were supposed to leave to go somewhere together; debating how certain camping chores needed to be executed; or disputing what to do when one of the kids staged a coup. The result was usually some crying, some pouty physical posture from them both, and some cabinet door slamming. It was obvious my parents were on the same page about big things, and I never saw them work out any differences on small things.

 pasted-image-2.png

I was strong-willed from day one. My mom says I cried a lot in my first year until she realized I just didn’t want to be held all the time. I wanted to crawl around and explore. I liked to learn on my own. If my mom told me to put the blue beads on first, I would put the red beads on first to see if I could do it differently. My very own, American independent, do-it-myself way. It wasn’t lack of instructions, clarity or reinforcement that made me veer. My parents are smart people, and they make good choices. I was just hard-headed and proud, fighting to have my own voice heard.

If they told me not to touch the edge of the new knife, I went straight to the silverware drawer to prove them wrong, immediately slicing my finger. If my mom tried to make me do chores, I climbed up the tree in the backyard so high she had to wait till I got hungry. If they told me to be in the house by ten at night, I strolled in at 10:07. But as much as I wanted to do it my own way, I also wanted my parents to be proud of me—to be impressed with my ingenuity and in awe of my creativity. I didn’t want to submit, because that felt like defeat. But to get their affirmation, assimilation was the only way.

I was praised most for my accomplishments and accolades, so I spent the majority of my time and energy performing. Mom, watch this! Hey, Mom, what about this!?! Wait, Mom, did you see this?!? I sold the most candy, got the highest grades, and won the prize at the fair for the prettiest craft. I was the cutest and the most athletic. I was popular and an annoying overachiever. I was also rarely in trouble. I heard what people said about people who failed, and that would have been painfully embarrassing. I thought I was pretty great. But despite my many efforts and successes, from the beginning, I also had a deep sense of shame. Because I wasn’t like my parents, I felt I was somehow bad.

As hard as I worked to prove to them that my different ways were amazing and incredible, I was still divergent. I spent the most time with my mom, but I didn’t think like she did. She liked doing things by the book. I valued thinking deeply and challenging the most trusted standards. I was more athletic and muscular than most girls, not lady-like. In fourth grade, my mom told me I needed to take ballet because I wasn’t graceful enough. When I got there, my ballet teacher must have told me a thousand times to tuck my tush under. What does that mean anyway? Where the hell did she want me to put it?

I also did not like my little brother. Maybe it was because I wasn’t like him. He was snuggly and gentle. Though I was glad to have a companion, I resented his closeness with my mother. My earliest childhood memory being left with my grandparents so he could be delivered at the hospital. When she would cuddle him or whisper a quiet conversation with him behind closed doors, I felt she favored and babied him. I made it my mission to make sure he was still raised right, punishing him passive-aggressively