When I was 10 years old my father taught me how to shoot
He wanted me to be safe
To be brave
To be the son he wished he had
And for a while I was
I could hit a bullseye on any target
I could watch the football game and pretend to care
I could ski faster and run farther than he could
My sister was daddy’s little girl
But I was always his favorite
At 13 I learned that guns kill people
My dad argued that people kill people
But he didn’t see the look on my classmate’s face when we learned about Travon
He didn’t have to watch CNN in history class
He didn’t care who won the election
It wasn’t him on the line
I came home from school and told him I wouldn’t shoot with him that weekend
Or ever again
When I was 14 I realized I hated running
I hated football
But I hated making him sad even more
So I joined the field hockey team
He didn’t come to a single game
Those were all palatable disappointments
Casualties of growing up
I was no longer his favorite
I wasn’t a tomboy
I wasn’t his little girl
I was 16 and all I wanted was to be older
He taught me the best kinds of wine
And how to smoke without coughing
But he never saw me as mature
To him I was simply a ten year old with a refined pallet
And then I saw him cry
My dad had never cried
Not until he got the call that his friend had taken his own life
This changed everything for him
He thought I didn’t see him as strong anymore
But I thought that was the strongest he’d ever been
I think I still wanted to make him proud
I shrunk myself to fit into the mold he had sculpted
I said I’d study business
I said I’d eat healthy and work out more
All that made me was sick and miserable
But he didn’t notice
He was so proud
And then I left
I learned about art and culture
I didn’t drink fancy wine I drank cheap vodka
I didn’t obsess over my body
I was so happy
Until he visited
I thought he’d be proud of how much I’d grown
But he was so disappointed
He told me he was happy for me, but his eyes told a different story
I could almost hear his thoughts
Fat
Queer
Stupid
Liberal
Things that defined me to my peers were now being spat back at me
But one was louder than all the others
Child
I wasn’t the son he wished for
Or the daughter he shaped so carefully
I was something else entirely
Someone else
When I was 19 I went shooting again
I hadn’t held a gun in years, but I was still a good shot
I didn’t tell my father.
