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Show I'm not. You are. You are choosing not to understand. I'm not. The ten, the ten, you play the ten. When he and I go set because I have not covered his three, he slams the cards to the table: no one is shuffling well, diamonds are clumping, the deck is crappy, the light, poor. The game is so easy if I would just think. Think, he insists, in the same way he demands that I hold the boards, align the wires, drive the nail in straight. Think, he insists, in the same way he demands I untangle the words he can't seem to remember. Think. And by his tone, I know that the failure is mine. I do not need him to say out loud how he feels about those who can't think. This is not the first time we have played. More likely, it is the twentieth, and this game will end like the others, me in tears, my father angry that I have become emotional, my tears ruining any chance I had at reason. How can I not remember how many spades have been played? How can I not know to play the Ace? Why isn't my skin thicker? With each mistake, I am made to feel that the inability to select the right card is a reflection of my inadequacy in general. I know how my father thinks about the world. The inefficiency of the checkout woman at the commissary reveals her lack of intelligence; the man checking ID cards at the Navy Exchange who won't let me through even though I have forgotten my ID suffers from a Napolean complex and, therefore, abuses the little power that he has; the woman who has not written her check out prior to reaching the cashier in the Exchange is dependent, shallow, and needy; the woman who hesitates at the yellow light is someone who doesn 't think. 189 |