When I Was Old Enough to Have Sleepovers

NOVEMBER 3, 2022

    When I was old enough to have sleepovers, my mom sat me down and told me that men are not allowed to touch me. “And they shouldn’t ask you to keep secrets.” If they did touch me or expect me to keep their secrets, I should tell her, because she wouldn’t be mad. She never got mad.

        I had never had sex before, let alone been paid for it and I had only ever smoked weed. I didn’t have a trust fund—that I knew of and I didn’t accept religion into my life, purposefully. Jailbait was a nickname that softened the strident tone of my first boss when he made comments about my fourteen-year-old body, and no, I didn’t tell my mother when he touched me. I kept his secrets.

        Slut, heathen, jailbait, drug addict, prostitute, trust fund baby. I’m sure there were other names people called me, nicer ones, but my fourteen-year-old mind focused on the ones that set me apart from my peers. I was a child of pop culture after all. I had seen the movies, the text posts, and the tabloids, and I envisioned my life reflecting them.

        At the milestone of adolescence, I recognized that my beautiful black house was a glasshouse and coolness was not a cornerstone of parenting. My parents were bad. Not bad people—bad parents. Which made me the result of their bad parenting, the car crash that the adults were drawn to and the kids couldn’t understand the severity of. Far too fascinating and horrifying to ever be considered “normal.”

        The only problems with my childhood were that there were no problems and that I was a child. My parents were the coolest people I had ever met and our life was the opposite of mundane. I had freedom that I neglected because I simply wanted to grow up. For twenty-one years I fantasized about my 21st birthday because that was the day I could buy cigarettes and alcohol, obtain real freedom, and be more like my parents.

        I was wrong, as most kids are; my childhood wasn’t good, I wasn’t a “good” child, and the only thing “cool” about me was my ability to distract others from the mundanities of their own lives. And this felt like an opportunity. I should stop trying to understand and be understood. I should play the role I was assigned, make myself more easily consumable, capitalize off my demise, entertain people and be the car crash. Another thing Mom told me was, “There is no such thing as bad press.”

        Adults always said, “The internet is forever,” like it was some kind of threat, but in my mind that was all the more reason to be involved. I didn’t care if strangers would consume me, I wanted my peers to understand me. I needed evidence of my existence beyond the creative rumors and harsh name-calling. The internet could aid in my proof that I was not normal, I was better. Why limit viewing to muted toned hallways and poorly paved neighborhood streets, when I could be open for observation 24 hours a day.

         Every year we went on an annual camping trip, my childhood friends and their fathers. It was the summer before my Freshman year and we were at the beach. Dad was wearing his favorite “Surf Forks, Washington” shirt and I wore my favorite American Apparel bikini. He was smoking a cigarette when he handed me his Modelo for the photo. An arm hovering over my waist, and a smile on both of our faces. I posted it to my Instagram with the caption “Dad Camping.”

        Six weeks into the school year I was called into the dean’s office. Across the thick oak desk laid single sheets of paper, my photos printed on them. She picked one up, turned it around, and told me, “This man is far too old to be your boyfriend.” She was correct, that was my father. What an odd implication to draw from a photo titled “Dad Camping” by a 14 year-old-girl. 

       Being myself and broadcasting my life was intriguing. A fifty-year-old Catholic woman had spent her precious workday printing my photos out, attempting to dissect what I meant by “Dad” and “Camping.” I knew what I meant, and I began to know why I had been branded “trouble.” My parents were bad, my boss touched me, there were no problems, and I was a child.