As I flop belly-down on my bed after a day of scribbling illegible notes and stealing glances at the back of Thane’s head, I notice the framed photo resting on my bedside table. Staring back at me are a bleach-blonde woman with my nose, a tall, wiry man with my eyes, a six-year-old with a bowl hair cut and no front teeth, and myself, during the awkward years. I try to remember the events of that dreaded picture day, where I awoke with my very first zit, and my father made burnt chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. Every year we had family picture day, a time for matching collared shirts, battles with combs and cowlicks, and blasting musical soundtracks in the car. Even though we had a few more picture years with dad after this one, this portrait is my favorite. Partially because it was taken before I got braces, but also because it was the day that our tire blew out on the way home and dad taught me how to change it. He purposely smeared grease across my cheeks and had my mother take a picture of the two of us (she was prepared at ALL times for a Kodak moment) because he said that he was so proud to have a daughter who could do what many adults couldn’t do. I try not to miss him too much, because when I do, the bitterness that I couldn’t relinquish to time begins to rise like a swelling tide within me.
Almost every day we find something to be angry about, whether it’s a haywire computer, a bad driver, a foolish friend, or a politician. Just like skydivers become addicted to the adrenaline rush, we become junkies of justified grievances but demand that others calmly dismiss any faux pas of our own. However, it wasn’t until my father’s death that I truly understood what anger was in its purest form. It’s a concoction of the most potent kind: a mix of sorrow, surprise, disgust, and loathing. Like liquor it burns your throat and blurs your inhibitions. You have no room for rational thought because hatred is a kin to love and they both tint your view with the fire of passion; without love, you only have apathy.
When your father’s a police officer, you accept that there is risk involved, but you never once think that he might not come home today. It’s amazing how one gesture as small as flipping a switch and turning on your siren can seal a fate that affects so many. It was 2:45 AM and he was pulling over a speeder. He didn’t expect that the driver was a gang member with a blood alcohol content well over the legal limit. Nor did he know that this young man simply didn’t have the money for a ticket because he’d spent it all on ammunition for the concealed weapon inside his jacket. With his history of assault and battery, as well as possession of narcotics, killing a cop was just icing on the judicial cake. But even knowing that he is spending life without parole in a place where you drop your soap at your own risk, I realized for the first time that justice doesn’t exist. True justice should even the scales and make everything fair. But how was it fair that someone who had wasted his life got the opportunity to live, while someone who drank in every moment and laughed with his whole heart was robbed of tomorrow?
I feel the brand of hypocrisy every time I nod along with an anecdote on forgiveness, or discuss having tolerance for others’ imperfections. But no matter how hard we try to shun it, hypocrisy surrounds us. A human is lawfully entitled to live, but only if they exist outside of the womb. We fight for freedom and then use that freedom to destroy ourselves. Gear for a trip up Mount Everest with no oxygen: $1200. A shot of heroin: $100. A human life: priceless. All life should be reverenced, but only when it’s convenient for us.
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