He was proud of himself, not of me.
Summer 2017 Writings from the Nuthouse
I was one angry young woman. In high school, I worked as hard as I could for grades so I was certain to get into college and escape the life I had. My parents seemingly paid no mind to how we did in school. It was my grandma, my mom’s mom and my aunt, my mom’s twin sister, who urged and cheered me on to success.
I didn’t think my dad ever noticed my grades, which were excellent. One semester in my junior year, I received 5 A's and a B. It was my most outstanding scholastic achievement to date. My father, for some very odd reason, took notice. He began telling me how proud he was. I was his daughter and I was so intelligent.
So, two things. First, why the fuck didn’t he notice all the other times I only got A’s and B’s? Because that’s all I got, A’s and B’s. Second, why was he proud of me? Because he made me. He was proud of himself, not of me.