A List of Things That Didn't Kill Me Read Free Page A

three men whose names I didn’t know. The men with the guns were talking to our people, and our people seemed ashamed and scared and angry at the same time. They didn’t want to make eye contact with the armed men. They moved like they wanted to run or fight, but they were forcing themselves to move slowly and stand still. I kept looking around, trying to understand what was happening. When I glanced back toward the door I saw police officers standing in the doorway, in blue uniforms. On TV, cops were the good guys, so I thought we were probably going to be all right.
    Marianne came over and picked me up, then sat in a chair next to the front door with me in her lap. The armed men didn’t seem interested in her. She sat me on her lap while the men with the guns talked to my dad and his friends, and told the police where to go. I started to get the idea that not only were the strangers cops, in spite of their plain clothes, but that they were actually the cops in charge.
    The uniformed police started to make their way into the house. They walked around freely, turning on lights and looking in rooms without asking permission. I didn’t know you were supposed to ask permission to walk around in someone else’s house until I saw the police officers not doing it. I realized I might have been mistaken about things being okay because the police were here. Finally, I understood that something was going very wrong; it was just taking a long time to actually happen. I heard a noise, like someone dropping an armful of wood, and looked through the doorway that led into the kitchen. There was a cop in there with a long pole, tearing panels off the ceiling.
    I looked at my dad. He was talking to the man with the silver pistol.
    That’s my only clear memory of my dad from that time: thin, medium height, with a beard and a receding hairline. Dark skin. Long, dark, wispy hair. He had a high forehead, strong cheekbones, and a large, straight nose. Some people thought he looked Arabic. He was wearing a sleeveless undershirt and a pair of bellbottoms. His wide, sensitive mouth was tight with fear and anxiety. Marianne reached up and grabbed my arms, like she thought I might try to get off her lap, but she didn’t say anything. I could feel the fear in her—the tension in her leg muscles and the way she held her body perfectly rigid behind me. I kept expecting her to say something about how everything was going to be okay, but she was completely focused on the men with the guns.
    Later that night, some people came to collect me. I never went back to that house again.

 
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    My dad was born in Los Angeles, California, in 1950. He had a mother and a father and two older brothers. My grandfather, John, was the son of Hungarian immigrants with a German surname. John served in the Navy during World War II, came home, and got a job operating construction cranes during the postwar West Coast building boom. My dad’s mother died when Dad was in high school. My grandfather remarried to a woman named Margaret. Margaret and my father did not get along, so my father left home when he was still comparatively young. At some point, he met my mother. The two of them got married and, when my dad was twenty-two, I was born.
    These are the things I can prove.
    My dad, when he told me the story of his life, always framed it in terms of Leave It to Beaver . Until he was about twelve, he said, his life was just like that TV show: nuclear family, stern authoritarian father he called “sir,” a politely maternal mother; clean house, big yard, meat and potatoes for dinner. All the boys had crew cuts. They wore slacks and shirts for school, suits for church, jeans and T-shirts during summer vacation. A guy in white coveralls and a flat cap delivered their milk twice a week, and candy bars cost a nickel.
    Dad’s mother, who had grown up during the Great Depression, used to tell her kids that they needed to appreciate