Page 15 of Don't Let Me Go
“Um. Wow. Thanks,” I say, doing my best to muster the appropriate level of enthusiasm. With its slim lapels and subtle pinstripe, the suit is admittedly quite stylish. It’s also, however, an unfortunate reminder of just how much a person’s taste can change.
Case in point: When I was ten, Dad asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, and because he was my hero, I told him that I wanted to be just like him—I wanted to be a lawyer.
To clarify, Dad isn’t the gross kind of lawyer who spends his days helping corporations avoid paying taxes. He’s a civil rights attorney. And for the past twelve years he’s worked for the ACLU, fighting for criminal justice reform, free speech, immigrants’ rights, voting rights, and (of course) LGBTQ+ rights.
I still remember as a kid eagerly listening to him talk about all the cases he was working on and all the people he was trying to help. He was so passionate about his work and even more passionate about instilling that passion in me, his one and only child. And for a while, I shared his passion.
To my ten-year-old brain, my dad was Superman. Only instead of tearing his suit off before heading out to fight injustice, my dad put one on. Even after all these years, Dad’s enthusiasm for his work is still infectious. And as cheesy as it sounds, he’s still my hero. The only trouble is, now that it’s my turn to don a suit and help save the world from injustice, I’m having second thoughts. More than second thoughts.
IknowI don’t want to be a lawyer. I’ve actually known this for quite some time. I just haven’t found the right opportunity to tell my dad and break his heart.
“Do you like the color?” he asks, noticing my hesitation. “I know you’re more into blacks and grays, but I thought something with a little color could be fun.”
“The color’s great,” I say as a fresh wave of guilt washes over me. “Youreallydidn’t need to do this.”
“Of course I did! It’s not every day that my son comes to work with me.”
I force myself to smile, and Dad laughs one of his good-natured laughs.
“Don’t worry, I’ll try not to embarrass you too much at the office,” he jokes, slapping me on the back. Though, to be honest, I’m far more concerned about embarrassing him.
I’ve inherited a lot of things from my dad (his curly black hair, his aversion to tomatoes, his love of classicDoctor Who), but an unwavering optimism about the world isn’t one of them. But that’s Greg Iverson. He goes to work every day believing that he can make a difference.
Me? I’m not so sure.
Given everything that’s happened over the past few years, it seems to me that America is one giant dumpster fire, and things are only getting worse. Especially for people like me and my friends. And while I know it’s important not to lose hope and to keep fighting prejudice andinequality, most days it feels like my time would be equally well spent banging my head against a large rock. Because for every Greg Iverson fighting for queer rights, there are a hundred lawyers and politicians on the other side of the aisle trying to take them away.
It’s exhausting. We might be on the right side of history, but most of the time it feels like we’re also on the losing side. And honestly? I’m not sure we’ll ever win.
But how do I tell my dad that? How do I say,Hey, you know everything you’ve spent your entire life fighting for? Well, I think it’s all been a waste of time, and this country and humanity are doomed. But thanks for the snazzy suit!
“Why don’t you head upstairs and try it on?” Dad suggests, still grinning with pride. “Make sure it fits.”
“I’m actually kind of tired,” I lie. “I think I’m just going to go to bed.”
“Oh,” he says, unable to hide his disappointment.
I don’t want to hurt his feelings, so I shoot him a conciliatory smile and add, “I’m also kind of sweaty and gross from the carnival. I don’t want to stink up the suit. But I’ll try it on first thing tomorrow. After I’ve showered.”
Dad nods, accepting the compromise. Then, feigning a few expertly crafted yawns, I carry the suit upstairs to my room and promptly shove it into the back of my closet.
Almost immediately, though, my guilt overtakes me. Even if the suit is a reminder of the potentially exhausting future that Dad has laid out for me, it’s still a thoughtful gift. A thoughtful gift from a kind and compassionate father to his thankless child who’s a terrible son and an even worse homosexual.
Seriously, how many queer teenagers would kill to have a parent who’s this excited for their child to follow in their footsteps and work alongside them to fight for queer rights? I hate that I’m so ungrateful.But sometimes I feel like I answered a question when I was ten, and that answer determined the entire rest of my life.
It’s like what Jackson said at the carnival tonight. If the story of your life has already been written, can you even call it your life?
With that depressing thought, I decide not to wait until morning to wash up and head to the bathroom. A hot shower is one of the few things that can lift my spirits when I start to sink into one of my existential black holes. And a few minutes later, with the warm water washing the sweat and stress of the day down the drain, I do feel a little less fatalistic about my future.
I also find myself thinking about Jackson.
I still can’t figure him out. On the one hand, he was exactly what I expected from a walking Ken Doll: clueless, privileged, awkward around queer people. But on the other hand, he was thoughtful and compassionate and ready to own his mistakes. He also laughed at my jokes, which indicates a higher-than-average intelligence.
That being said, he looked really uncomfortable when Duy insisted that he save all our numbers in his phone. He clearly wasn’t ready for that level of commitment.
I bet he’s already deleted us from his contacts. In fact, I bet none of us sees or hears from Jackson Haines for the rest of the summer.
Not that I care.
