Bad Girl House

The day that I met John’s family went very differently from the day he met my parents. It was much closer to the traditional introduction of the new girlfriend. We weren’t going to be there unannounced for them to find us when they got home. We were going to their house for dinner on Easter Sunday, which happened to fall on John’s birthday that year. He had told me to dress nicely, as if that wasn’t a given. John may have even bought flowers to bring to his mother. When we got there we were greeted by his mother at the door. There were happy hellos and hugs. Everyone was glad to see each other.

This didn’t remain the normal routine when I came to their house. Both of John’s parents felt that it was up to the guest to make it a point to greet them when coming to their home. It was my job to find them in order to say hello. As I actually got to know them better, and became more uncomfortable around them, this became a bigger problem than it may seem. This became especially awkward with his father. Usually he was working in the garage or in the backyard. John would often tell me where his father was to make sure I didn’t miss my opportunity. I never got much more than a grunt in response anyway. He barely turned to look at me either. I would later come to discover the real reasons for the awkwardness between John’s father and me. Sometimes John would ask if I had greeted both of his parents, and wasn’t happy if I hadn’t been able to yet. There were a few times that I didn’t see his father for hours after we’d arrived, so I didn’t remember to say hello. His parents would later complain about it to John. Long after I had been caught in this routine, I told my mom about this belief of theirs. Like most other people I know, my mom believed that guests should be greeted right away by the people whose house they were visiting.

On this Easter Sunday, this special occasion, everyone was already nearby, so I didn’t have to track anyone down. They created a welcoming environment. John’s bother and sister were also there, so I needed to make a good first impression on them too. I believe that it was John’s weekend with his son, Johnathan. John’s mother and father quickly became known as only Nana and Papa, and it was said always said like it was one word. John made polite conversation with his parents about school and work. His demeanor with them was not one I was used to seeing lately, even though we had only been together only a few months. This was a different person. At least for now, he was showing a great deal of respect for the people closest to him. These were some of the only people he ever showed it to.

While we sat in the living room and talked, it wasn’t long before my age became a topic of conversation. They didn’t know how old I was until Nana asked me. They all shared surprised, bug eyed stares. I was only one year younger than John’s sister, which caused considerable laughter. Even though I was nineteen, I didn’t want them to think I was an immature little girl. Questions turned to my classes, which I felt much more comfortable talking about. I talked about my love of music, and my dream of being a music teacher after graduating. Nana hoped that I would start bringing sheet music with me to play her piano. She was disappointed that none of her children and learned to play, and was glad that someone could finally use it.

Dinner was what you would expect at an Italian home for a holiday. The house was full of wonderful, mouth-watering smells. There were bowls of pasta and meatballs, a huge ham, and plenty of desserts. That included John’s birthday cake. When dinner was over, everyone was to help clear the table, fill the dishwasher, and wash the remaining pots by hand. I had no problem helping. Even John helped that time. My point is, it was the only time I can remember him washing dishes. He was always more than happy to cook, which made cleanup everyone else’s job. That was supposed to be the rule. If you cooked the meal, you didn’t have to clean up afterwards. Over time, that rule only applied to John. If I cooked, which I always did, I was definitely the one cleaning up as well.

Easter Sunday ended with no confrontations, no yelling, no brawling, nothing like what happened the day John met my parents. The worst thing about the day was probably my own worry about what they would all think of me, and about what they might say to John later. That, actually, is what would actually turn out to be the worst thing about the day. I will never know for sure if what John told me during the next week was true or not. He said that his family all agreed that I didn’t seem like someone who was cut out to be a successful teacher. I was too quiet. I wasn’t outspoken enough to handle a classroom of children. That last comment turned into a constant and persistent voice in the back of my mind. It was there when I practiced a lesson in front of my peers. I heard it during my semester of student teaching. When I had rough days during my first and only year having my own classroom, there it was. Years later when I was substitute teaching, there were days that I didn’t accept certain openings because I didn’t have the confidence. It’s amazing how one statement can have such an influential impact. Especially for someone who was already struggling with their self-assurance.