Running Away
We planned it for months.
We even bought an old car, up on blocks and without tires,
for ten dollars, not that either of us were old enough to
drive. Other kids at school brought us canned goods, which
we stored in our lockers. We thought that as soon as we got
away, our lives would finally begin. We'd cross some
barrier into the real world, where we would belong in a way
we couldn't as long as we lived at home.
I was inspired by Jerry Rubin's book. Do It, which made me understand that I was
being held captive by the state (as represented by my
parents.) It was my duty to resist them any way I could.
One night my friend and I climbed out my bedroom window. We
hitchhiked to the next town and found some university
students who took us in.
Our pictures were on television news and eventually the
police found us. When my father picked me up from the
station, he was crying. He was a big, tough man. He was in
the military. He had never cried before, but I wasn't
sorry. I looked away from him. I was going to do it again,
first chance I got. This time I'd go to Key West or I'd go
to San Francisco. He'd never find me. I didn't belong to
him. I belonged to my generation. We were going to dance on
their graves.
I didn't forgive my parents for being who they are until my
first child was born. I could only think of what a betrayal
my 15 year old self must have been to the baby my parents
remembered. But it was too late to make anything right. By
then, my father was already dead. I did not dance on his
grave.