Textual Revision“You’re just like dad” those were the words my family loved to shout. I suppose it made sense. I always admired his cleaning habits, the way he planned everything out and things just seemed to fall in place around him. I envied his ability to stay focused and calm throughout the most chaotic times. But it wasn’t always like this.
When I was younger my father used to enjoy praising his four daughters. His face always used to light up whenever reports cards were mailed home; we were his most precious trophies. Every morning we would help our mother, Alice, clean and organize the rooms, set the table, organize the laundry and sweep the house as traditional Cape Verdean females were instructed. Our home was normal patriarchal household. Dad was happy, mom didn’t know anything else and being four sisters, we would soon grow out of it.
During high school my siblings had become complete rebels. They would stay out late, go out on dates with complete jerks and ruin their 4.0 GPA just to spite my father’s arrogant instructions. Although I am sure, there is much more to it than that. The four of us hated his rules. We did not live in the 1950s, laws and society had changed. We believed at the time this was the only way we could have received our freedom, no matter what it would cost us.
At the time, I believed I would become just as rebellious as my sisters. But instead I was the complete opposite. I not only maintained a 4.5 GPA, I was awarded multiple certificates; perfect attendance, high honors, high academic achievements and volunteer work. I also tried my best to follow dad’s rules. I did not date, I never went out past 7PM and I always finished my chores. I was a happy Cinderella. As much as I wanted to rebel a little, I could not help but follow my parent’s rules. I had watched the destruction take place at home. I had watched my mother and father’s heavy sighs, aches and frustration about my siblings. They were getting older and incapable of handling the four of us. I did not want them to suffer anymore.
Mom and dad were raised in Fogo, Cape Verde off the west coast of Africa; ten little poor islands. My father, arranged to marry my mother after traveling abroad to Portugal to earn a living for 4 years and finally earned enough to get on a ship sailing to America in 1987s. My mother struggled to adjust to the new English language, she became a hermit crab for 2 years afraid of what lied outside of her apartment. My father used his connections with some Cape Verdean factory workers and earned a full-time job as New Balance as a shoe repair worker. By the time my oldest sister, Fina was born in 1989 my parents had secured their own home in Brockton. Following my birth in 1991 along with my next sibling Christina in 1992, violence in Brockton had increased. My father’s side of the family had spread rumors about my mother and strained their marriage. My father decided to abandon his past and move to a safer location; Boston. It was here that things would begin to change.
My father was always a tidy person. Some would say obsessively clean. But after 1994, when my youngest sister Aderita (named after dad: Aderito) was born we had learned dad’s tendency to clean was a symptom of his anxiety. After suffering years of hard work in a factory, in a new country struggling to learn the language raised four daughters underneath the age of five, with a wife twenty years younger, the stress finally caught up to him. His heart got worse and his brain could not slow down. He was later prescribed medicine and told to relax.
Until I went off to Amherst College I had watched, listened and translated everything for him. I knew that he was no longer the young durable father I had known. He had become my unpredictable, fragile parent. He would wake up at 7AM to start cleaning the entire house top to bottom; he would take down every item hanging on the walls and scrub down the white panels, collecting dust and chipped paint, there he would begin to note each section he would repaint and the holes he would enclose with putty. He would stack up all the furniture just to scrub the floors, with a steel sponge and grab his favorite reliable rag drained in Pine-sol freshness. He would grab his favorite bleach bottle and begin to clear out the refrigerator and sanitize the cabinets, while shouting that all his family ever does is sleep and make a mess of things as he washed each of the vegetables and fruits individually. I want to continue but my wrists are aching and there is not enough words and pages to tell you what he had done.
Like the scenes from all coming-of-age films will teach you my head had finally popped. I rebelled like never before. My freshman year in a town 100 miles away from home, free from mom and dad had left me unexperienced to the world. The goody-two shoes, 4.5 GPA average and introverted young girl had been swapped out for some Mean girl rendition. I skipped all of my classes for shopping and working. I managed to sleep through all of my lectures and made some concerning friends and enemies. My decision making process was later continued by an academic suspension, depression and guilt. Unlike dad’s ability to be hardworking, tidy, focused and calm I was a complete failure. I felt like I let my parents down. They worked hard to bring up their girls and this was what they got back in return.
After returning home in 2014 I had decided to make it up to them and keep my promise. I had always imagined that I would make my parents proud. That by graduating I would be able to land a great job, buying us a great big house, car and live in a safe quiet part of town, where we could all relax. It wasn’t until a family meeting during the summer of 2014 we had all learned different. My parents had sat my siblings and I down. Perhaps they had noticed the impact their words had on us. Or perhaps they had noticed the way the four of us tried to earn our keep in the family. Either way, they told us all; no matter what mistakes we made as long as we learn from them and live our own lives happily they will be the proudest they’ve ever been. My parents made each of us promise to create a goal and plan for that goal so we could learn that our lives were in fact our own and not theirs. My mom told us, her and dad lived a tough life so my siblings and I wouldn’t have to. My father said “You are each very special girls to us” We were all different from one another, but each one of us made him happier than ever.
Perhaps I could have chosen to write about how much I hated having a patriarchal father. Perhaps I could have written about the rebellious acts my siblings and I got into, but I believe this timeline memory sums up my life the best I can; a constant learning experience.