Displacement of Prepubescent Anger
You may be wondering why Nathaniel is presently tweezing legs and antennae off a freshly dead cockroach discovered twitching near the dryer. You wouldn't be wondering at all if you knew Nathaniel's younger sister: Geraldine.
Countless trips to the community pool when (at his mother’s behest) he's been ashamed to carry Geraldine's pink floaties and shirtless man dolls while she struts in front of him, hands free and baby-fat arms swaying. Nathaniel won't know the definition of emasculation until fifteen, but understands the feeling all too well at seven.
He scoops up legs and antennae before flicking the limbless carcass under the dryer.
And how can he forgive those nine days after his mom listened to an old record and Geraldine forced him to call her “Geralda” because it almost rhymed with Esmeralda?
Back in his room and sitting at his desk, Nathaniel carefully spreads out the verminous haul before reaching into a Buzz Lightyear pencil cup for his favorite pair of scissors, not the safety kind from school.
When Nathaniel was her age, Mom never let him talk in the car. “This is a grown-up space and Mommy needs some shush time.” Geraldine, well, that’s different. His mom doesn’t just let her talk; she sings, loudly, with the windows up, a song Mom taught her.
Bumble bumble, don’t bee so humble. Bumble bumble, bee free with your beautee.
Mom never taught him any songs.
Having precisely scissored the legs and antennae into brown shavings, Nathaniel pinkies the spoils of his efforts off the table and onto a cupped sheet of wide-ruled paper.
He walks to the kitchen. His sister loves vanilla ice cream, the kind with bean specks.
Part of Nathaniel wishes for it, but Geraldine will never taste the difference.
Countless trips to the community pool when (at his mother’s behest) he's been ashamed to carry Geraldine's pink floaties and shirtless man dolls while she struts in front of him, hands free and baby-fat arms swaying. Nathaniel won't know the definition of emasculation until fifteen, but understands the feeling all too well at seven.
He scoops up legs and antennae before flicking the limbless carcass under the dryer.
And how can he forgive those nine days after his mom listened to an old record and Geraldine forced him to call her “Geralda” because it almost rhymed with Esmeralda?
Back in his room and sitting at his desk, Nathaniel carefully spreads out the verminous haul before reaching into a Buzz Lightyear pencil cup for his favorite pair of scissors, not the safety kind from school.
When Nathaniel was her age, Mom never let him talk in the car. “This is a grown-up space and Mommy needs some shush time.” Geraldine, well, that’s different. His mom doesn’t just let her talk; she sings, loudly, with the windows up, a song Mom taught her.
Bumble bumble, don’t bee so humble. Bumble bumble, bee free with your beautee.
Mom never taught him any songs.
Having precisely scissored the legs and antennae into brown shavings, Nathaniel pinkies the spoils of his efforts off the table and onto a cupped sheet of wide-ruled paper.
He walks to the kitchen. His sister loves vanilla ice cream, the kind with bean specks.
Part of Nathaniel wishes for it, but Geraldine will never taste the difference.
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