Lauren Saxon: 2 Stories
Cash for Clunkers
I do best with structure. With routine habits. And though saying this does nothing to keep it from happening, I don’t do well with change.
You remember, Dad. That dinner in 2009. I was twelve, and the Cash for Clunkers program had families trading in their old cars left and right. I didn’t think we would be one of them. You told us and I started to cry. I glared, incredulous, at my brother, who cheered at the prospect of getting a new car. I wanted then, to lock myself in our clunker. Our silver Jeep Grand Cherokee. The only car I had known.
How could you do this? I remember asking, through clenched teeth. Anger is the most productive emotion. The most outward one. Behind it, almost always, is fear. I was terrified to watch you rid me of a comfortable constant. Every night, you pick me up from soccer practice in this clunker. We drive this clunker to Grandma’s for Thanksgiving. When I was even smaller, I sat on your lap in the driver’s seat. Spinning the steering wheel with the gear still in park. How can you trade in our car without also trading in my favorite memories?
Remember when you tried to comfort me, Dad. By explaining how the car wouldn’t go to another family. It would be stripped for its parts. That, somehow, made it even worse. That the steering wheel, already molded by your grip and fingerprints, might be separated from the rest of us. Our tear in the seat cushion. Our cleat marks on the carpet. I want to confess, now, for the dent in the passenger door. I did it with my lead foot. The nickname you gave me, not for driving too fast, but for kicking the soccer ball so hard.
All of this is to say, Dad, that I didn’t see it coming either. I couldn’t have. In our family therapy sessions, we call my queerness a change in the family dynamic . Judging by your silence and mom’s tears, I fear it is an unwelcome one.
It was a change for me too, Dad. Her lips pressed to mine, in the back of her blue Honda CR-V. She kissed me and something changed. I didn’t cry until much later. Until I realized that this change, though I welcomed it, was another trade in itself. I gained a woman’s unconditional love and lost yours.
I want it back, Dad. I want to strip myself of parts. To turn in this queerness for more time steering on your lap. It doesn’t fit me, anyway. I have been waiting to grow into it. It feels, in some ways, like wearing your slippers around the house. The tops folding over as I trip on empty space. My queerness is a fumbling one, Dad, a clunker.
I do best with structure. With routine habits. I have learned, now, that I get this from you.
Take your time.
Thanksgiving in Philadelphia
My grandparent’s new apartment already smells like them. It is filled with the same furniture as the old one. The beige couch still sits in the living room. Even for me, it feels too low to the ground. In front of the couch stands a glass coffee table. My grandmother, living proof that black doesn’t crack, fills a crystal bowl with peanut M&Ms and sets it down gently. On top of all this furniture is the smell. Though my grandfather is not allowed to smoke his cigars in the apartment, the scent always sneaks its way in through the balcony door.
In the TV room, my grandfather turns the volume way too loud. The room is scattered with books, maps, and magazines. Growing up, we were never able to watch TV during dinner. But with age, comfort comes first. Pop-Pop watches the news and history channels until he can narrate them himself. He studies the map of Vanderbilt’s campus daily. I am certain he could walk to my class over the phone.
We order cheesesteaks from Pat’s or Geno’s or Dalessandro's and place the same order we’ve placed for years. I hold the onions and peppers on my steak and Pop-Pop calls it a sin just to eat only the steak and cheese. As always, my father drives the rental car to pick up the food. And because Grandma insists, he sets the brown paper bag down on the dining room table. We unwrap our sandwiches carefully, trying not to drip grease on the embroidered tablecloth. One that has been passed down for generations.
We are all at the table now. My brother tells us that he’s been doing well at work. He is considering quitting, though, despite his excellent performance review. The work he’s doing just doesn’t feel meaningful enough.
While he talks, I notice that my grandfather’s button-down shirt fits differently. He has always been skin and bone. Pop-Pop is a former cross-country runner with toothpick legs, a beer belly, and a wide smile if he lets you see it. It seems impossible to me that he has gotten skinnier, but yes. His shirts are somehow even looser. There is an even bigger gap between his wrist and shirt cuff. It takes him even more effort to stand.
“What can I get you Pops? Let me get it,” Grandma says, noticeable concern in her voice.
They have been married for over 50 years, for better or for worse. It strikes me now that this is the worse. They have lived in health, but now is the time for sickness. Diabetes. Cancer. Early stages of dementia. My grandmother is the caretaker for a patient with three.
Pop-Pop lowers himself back to the chair. Without another word, Grandma brings him a beer from the fridge. A Yuengling lager. I am amazed by her ability to interpret. For the next hour, she predicts all of Pop-Pop’s needs before they are voiced. When his conversation verges on incoherent, she translates his thoughts perfectly. It makes them more palatable for her children and grandchildren. She never misses a beat. I cannot tell if she is in pain or in love. She smiles and I convince myself that it is the latter.
Next, we talk about football because it is safe. Pop-Pop makes a comment about rooting for everybody black. We laugh as he cheers on the team with the ‘Negro coach’ and in the same breath, scolds the black players for celebrating too much after touchdowns.
“Come on now, good grief,” he groans, “Act like you’ve been here before.”
The Eagles play later tonight. Grandma and Pop-Pop will watch from home, but the rest of the family will be in the stands. A Thanksgiving tradition.
Pop-Pop excuses himself from the table and heads back to the TV room, where he is protected by the constant commentary. Grandma, who is now off-duty, brightens markedly. Because she is finally alone and we are all adults, she asks her grandbabies about their love life. She is curious and hungry for answers.
Grandma asks about any special someones and my parents stiffen. My brother and I lock eyes. It is our turn, now, to interpret. To translate. Because we are both black and queer and alive, we are all too familiar with this dance. Together, we answer that we are both focusing on other things: work, school, hobbies. We quench Grandma’s thirst by changing the pronouns of our significant others. Each time I fumble, my brother recovers. I call the girl I am in love with my best friend. I am an honest liar. I wonder if she knows.
After successfully denying a portion of our identity, my brother and I nod to each other. It is not like us to hide, but again and again, we choose our grandparents’ comfort over ours. They are older, anyway.
The silence that follows is not unfamiliar. It saturates the entire apartment.
I am unsurprised by the wave of nausea that comes over me. I walk the long way to the bathroom, through the TV room, to hide that I am in a hurry. For a few seconds, I am deafened by the History Channel. I am overwhelmed by maps.
Standing over the toilet, it all makes sense to me. My grandfather, the first black superintendent in his Philadelphia school system, is suddenly leaking information. It escapes, like smoke, through his balcony doors. In front of the TV, he desperately tries to fill the increasing number of gaps. He puts out one fire with each documentary he watches, then another one appears. For Pop-Pop, the studying of maps has transformed from a hobby to a method of survival. He must remember how to get home from the store, remember where he is each morning, he has to.
“Joyce!” Pop-Pop calls for my grandmother. “Bring me another beer.”
My heart sinks. Her breaks are too short. The word joy is trapped in my grandmother’s name and I find myself wondering how much of it belongs to her. At this moment, I know she, herself, is struggling to get out of a chair. Grandma is too old to be a full-time nurse.
I close the lid as my nausea is replaced with a different feeling of urgency.
I rush to open the door, only to discover my brother Michael, already handing his grandfather another Yuengling. Michael, now a distance runner himself, has Pop-Pop’s same, toothpick legs. Has his same, round nose. Beer delivered; he was one step ahead of me.
In the living room, I peek to see that Grandma is still sitting in the same chair that I left her in.
I am grateful for my brother’s heart.
Slowly, I walk back to the bathroom, lift the toilet seat, and wait to throw up.
Lauren Saxon is a 22 year old poet and mechanical engineer from Cincinnati Ohio. She attends Vanderbilt University, and relies on poetry when elections, church shootings, and police brutality leaves her speechless. Lauren's work is featured or forthcoming in Flypaper Magazine, Rhythm & Bones Lit, Nimrod International Journal and more. She is on staff at Gigantic Sequins, Assistant Editor of Glass: A Journal of Poetry and spends way too much time on twitter @Lsax_235