My father lives at the end of a dirt road next door to our landlord who
is the only other neighbor on our make-shift block. Years ago, there was
a third neighbor, but the city’s department of development tore it down
just as they will someday tear down ours.
My father’s house is a shack. There are great gaping tears in the
linoleum tiles, under which (most likely) dwells cancer-causing
asbestos. I used to throw tantrums on that floor; great screaming fits,
after reading a story about a roley-poley old man and his roley-poley
wife. I was just learning to read and we were required to do so aloud,
but I was dyslexic and reading aloud was hard for me. So, I would scream
in frustration, my voice reverberating back to me off the floor. I
remember the pattern in the tiles exactly, if you asked, I could
describe it to you in perfect detail.
The building was originally a tiny one room farm house, my and my
brother’s bedrooms were converted chicken coops, the bathroom was added
when indoor plumbing became popular.
That bathroom, whose walls are forever covered in black mold, is
sinking, slowly in our side yard, where the laundry water drains…
(Written around winter 2010)
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I grew up in a small desert town in Southern California to parents barely out of their teen years. We were not wealthy by any means, rather, we scraped by on an income just below poverty level--which we stretched between the five of us. What luxuries we had we bought with money borrowed from my mother's parents--who seemed the only people who cared about our well being. My father's parents were too preoccupied with our souls to care about our physical or emotional needs.
When it grew too dangerous to stay in our tiny apartment in Oildale, we moved to my father's house at the end of the road.
There, I spent most of my time climbing the giant fruitless mulberry tree in our side yard. I knew every branch by heart, the feel of its bark beneath my bare feet was a reminder of my much needed solitude. No one could climb as high as I could, and there were places one could only reach with bare feet--shoes were too cumbersome, I needed the grip of my toes, the flexibility of my feet, as apposed to the thick stiffness of shoes. Mine were the only feet calloused enough to climb without shoes and the tree became the only place where no one could follow.
Even now, years later, I believe I could still move, barefoot among the branches, and recognize every bump and twig.
Though that tiny shack of a house has changed so much over the years, I find myself returning to it in my dreams, as it was in my childhood. My mind can't seem to accept the newly paved road taking up half the front yard, or the missing house across the way. Growing up, I cared, very little about its yellowing walls and torn linoleum. The stained carpet and the drafty hole in the living room wall embarrassed me. That little house was little comfort to me and I wanted nothing more than to leave. While I have no want to return to my overly hot hometown, I do miss that tree and the cool nights I spent curled in a sleepingbag beneath it.
(These pictures of my father's house were taken in 2006)
