A Wedlock of Equilibrium

A Wedlock of Equilibrium
by Julian Fox

"Parents tend to want their children to become independent and strong
as long as they do exactly what they're told and always come running
when they need help." - Anonymous.

The rhetoric seethes and boils, but it seems sincere:
"Simply put, the kid irritates the hell out of me," says a guidance
counselor (that middle-aged woman with Texas hair, the one slouching
toward osteoporosis, orthopedic shoes and a buzzing bitterness).
"Shredded fishnets stockings and eight-eyelet Doc Martens are not
appropriate attire for an educational setting. Never mind that
goddamned dog collar&;#8230;" Down the hallway, an English teacher
recalls, "Incredibly, she did her paper on&;#8230; get
this&;#8230; incestuous sexual symbolism in the vampire
motif&;#8230; and then insisted on reading it before the class! She
became argumentative about it, absolutely insulting. We had to put her
in detention." Outside, sneaking a cigarette, eyes nervously darting
around, a seventeen year-old boy laments, "She dumped me because I
wasn't 'edgy' enough. 'You're just not the kind of firecracker I need
to inspire me,' she said. Broke my fucking heart."
My father-Ward Cleaver with an NRA card-packs his pipe: "You know, son,
that child of yours would be a pretty little thing if she just wasn't
so damn&;#8230; peculiar." Sure, dad; whatever. Clearly, the Colonel
is delusional, suffering certain aftereffects from his lifetime of
default Republicanism and a shimmering distaste for irregularity. In
truth, Alexandra Fox is positively stunning at sixteen, albeit in a way
that might strike one as vaguely disreputable: petulant and
diamond-hard, a petite collision of leather, lace and radiant metals.
And those eyes, so wholly unsettling-brittle and dark as a winter night
over Elliott Bay, yet still somehow fiery in the way they glitter. Like
something you'd find inside a geode. Then there's this, her godfather
idly observing over single-malts at Lowell's: "Don't mistake my
meaning, Jules, but just the way that little chick crosses her legs
seems somehow scandalous."
The school principal admits it; he searched her locker. Reports had
come back, you see, raising some serious concerns. And a damned good
thing he did investigate too, for what was found inside? A dog-eared
copy of 'American Psycho;' some book by the Marquis de Sade (in French
no less; so he couldn't read the title but it clearly had something to
do with Sodom); four Marilyn Manson CDs, together with recordings by
bands alarmingly named Dismembered Quietly, Cannibal Corpse and Project
Pitchfork; a tract entitled 'Anarchy for the Masses' and some photo
collection, 'Secret Space: The Art of Fetish Photography.' And how
about that black leather padlock-and-plate bustier? Everything was
seized, of course. Those long shadows of Columbine still prowl the
hallways of America's schools, and precautions simply must be
taken.
Then, scarcely a day into probation, Alex turns up for class with a
clean-shaven head. Not only that, but her nose is newly pierced, a
small ring transfixing the left nostril and joined by three tiny gold
chains to another in her ear. Gang-related activity, of some sort?
Possibly; after all, she is half-Hispanic, isn't she? Since, for this
very reason, policy explicitly prohibits shaven heads-those of both
boys and girls-as well as visible piercings anywhere but the ears, it
seems apparent the child has either overlooked the rules outlined in
her student guide, or blatantly disregarded them. Probably the latter,
knowing that girl and her insubordinate attitude. Either way, a parent
conference is strongly advised and quickly arranged, even though she
makes the claim, from behind that maddeningly cavalier smile of hers:
"Actually, factually, the Dad Unit okayed it." Something must be done
to get to the bottom of this behavior and arrive at solutions.
Not such a simple proposition.
As we shake hands for our first time, the man's eyes speak more
eloquently than words. Rather like Ms. Fox, my personal aesthetic runs
toward unrelieved black-though not quite so provocatively, and rather
more streamlined, professional. (There was a time, however&;#8230;)
Also, some faint odor of bourbon probably still clings to me, a legacy
of the preceding night with Serena; hell, maybe even a certain soft
scent of post-coital funk and raunch. All in all, the principal doesn't
look reassured, or terribly pleased. But my purpose isn't to impress
the fellow, and certainly not to gain his approval; already my opinion
of him ranks up there with Donald Wildmon. Instead, I've come to find
out why the fuck my daughter's been suspended from school for three
days. She's told me, of course, but I'd like to hear it from the
Man.
The educator begins reciting a litany of Alexandrian transgressions:
mal a propos fashion choices; disturbing preferences in music and
literature; her contentious, sometimes rebellious attitude-not to
mention a tendency to show respect for authority strictly at her own
discretion-resulting in frequent detentions, as well as a file thick
enough to stop an Exocet; and now this bald head and nose-piercing. The
man prattles on and I'm sure he sees the smile steadily grow as bars
from Pink Floyd's The Wall filter through my brain. Maybe he even
notices the rolling of my eyes. In any case, with his voice tightening
and becoming more pressured, he pauses for a moment and says, "Mr. Fox,
perhaps you don't fully realize&;#8230;" then leans over to retrieve
a small cardboard box from the floor: the books, CDs and lingerie
previously seized. One by one, he extracts the items and begins to line
them up on his desk.
"Just a minute," I say. "These are all things given to Alex by her
mother and myself-Solstice presents, birthday presents, presents for no
particular reason whatever. They don't belong to you. They belong to
her. And I'm going to have to insist that you return them immediately.
Especially that bustier; she loves the thing and it cost a bloody
fortune."
Stopping in mid-movement, momentarily stunned, he asks if we really
think such gifts a proper for a young girl. In response, a brief
Saavedra-Fox family biography is offered: Her parents first met in
January of 1978, at the Sex Pistols show in Dallas. Some years later,
they were married at a Satanic church in the same city, not because
they were Satanists but because they liked the imagery-and its mocking
of convention infra dignitatem. Awhile after that, Alexandra was
(probably) conceived in the bathroom at a Sisters of Mercy concert.
Throughout the pregnancy, my then-wife took to wrapping a pair of
Walkman headphones around her increasingly prodigious belly to play our
daughter the Buzzcocks, PiL and Siouxsie. Amid all that lies a personal
history of cultivated sneers, enough eyeliner to detail a custom van
and the politics of alienation. And yes, even a little methamphetamine,
though that ceased about the time the proverbial rabbit died.
Therefore, young Alexandra was doomed to her fate from the
get-go.
"We had no idea how to be parents," I tell him, "so we didn't even try.
The one mandate we managed to summon up was, 'Just don't do it like our
folks did,' and we went from there. This resulted in what can only be
called a democratic family, one person-one vote. And past a certain
point, as Alex grew, restrictions were gradually lifted-restrictions
that had only been implemented for her infantile safety. Since then,
she's been encouraged to find her own way, her own means of
self-expression, and especially to question authority. Even ours. And
she's coming along brilliantly, if you ask me. See, all we really want
out of our daughter is a human being more powerful, more centered and
more potential-filled than we could ever dream of being. I'd hope
that's what all parents want for their children."
"And Jesus," I add as an afterthought, "she's sixteen. I'd be worried
as hell if she wasn't rebelling against something."
The argument, of course, has no effect on the man; he's my father
recast. While allowing that, in America, parents are free to raise
their kids in whatever manner they choose-even irresponsibly-he
maintains the schools have a duty to create a safe, distraction-free
environment, and to minimize the potential for trouble. Since Alexandra
has so plainly violated school policy, her suspension is necessary.
However, she can return to school in three days, although I may want to
consider buying her a wig until she urges forth at least an inch of
hair growth. Otherwise, she'll remain in violation and possibly subject
to further discipline. Furthermore, the school will no longer tolerate
her penchant for challenging authority, and will closely monitor the
things she brings to school. More suspensions-and possibly
expulsion-could result if something's not done. As her father, it's my
responsibility to cajole her back into the herd.
Thanking the man (sarcastically), I leave. Walking to the nearest bus
stop, to rejoin my daughter at home and tell her about the morning's
events, it becomes clear the situation at that school is untenable. She
is not a discipline problem, at least not in the sense some gangbangers
and assorted rich kids can be. She is not violent. She has a 3.4 GPA,
one spelling bee championship under her belt and a couple of national
academic awards. She's a damned good kid, just a little sassy and a
little proud of herself. And I'm not going to have her mistreated by
prejudicial adults and anal-retentive educators. No, I'll take her out
of that school, place her in private tutoring for the rest of the
school year. Over the summer, her mother and I will research other
schools-probably of the alternative persuasion; we'll find one that
will let her continue to spread her wings and discover whatever destiny
awaits her.
Throughout my life, connections with women have come and gone;
dissolute relationships, heavy on obliquity and light on commitment or
durability. One exception, however, remains: that small nuclear device
with a leather Perfecto and every single issue of Backfire, the one
named Alexandra. Whereas even my marriage to her mother was destined to
falter and dissolve because of ultimately divergent aims, ours is a
wedlock of equilibrium. Whereas the bloodline thinned between my
parents' generation and mine, ours has thickened. We balance each
other-her very existence, for example, has spared me from continued
drug use and, probably, the early death that claimed so many friends;
mine, it can only be hoped, forms the supportive and encouraging
foundation from whence she can grow into a fully self-actualized
person. I've been in love with many women, but I've only ever loved
one. Now, I'll go home, tell my daughter what's happened, probably
listen to our new copy of Rammstein's 'Mutter' with her, then take the
kid for lunch at Charlie's on Broadway.
And from here on out, God pity the fool who tries to meddle with her
self-expression. We bite.

NOTE: Soon to be published in MISC Magazine, an alternative weekly
based in Seattle, Washington, U.S.A.