Caste

I had seen the Brady Bunch kids cheer and swarm when Mister Brady came home from work. And so it was not so much that I was excited to see my father when he came home from work that day. It was more that I wanted so badly to be a “Brady Kid,” and this is what they did, and so I acted.  I guess you could say this was the beginning of my acting career. 

When I heard my cue, the car slowing up outside our home, I made my way to our front porch and climbed on top of a section of the porch that jutted out like a diving board, and I jumped. 

Not off. But up and down as I cheered, “Daddy’s Home! Daddy’s home! I was playing a role in a movie that I had secretly hoped would be my life. 

My father smelled of onions and wine and sometimes spoke in one-word sentences. 

Negatory!

Affirmative!

All the wishing in the world would not turn him into Mister Brady. 

I watched as he exited the car that dropped him off from work. The driver, My uncle Harry, was not a real uncle, but he brought us chocolate bunnies on Easter, and he smiled and patted our heads whenever he came into the house, and he so seemed worthy of the title. 

Like the mailman, the milkman, and the Good Human man, Uncle Harry would deliver our father to us every day around dinner, and that gave him the status of being worthy of respect and honor. 

From my elevated perch, I watched my father exit the car and take in my enthusiastic, welcoming committee of one, I could almost feel his denial. His inability to play the role that I wished to cast him in. 

In his version of the story, he turned to shut the car door, and when he looked back, I was gone, vanished into thin air. 

My version was more painful. I went up. And then up.  And then over.  And over, my little body sprang like it was shot from a cannon, but sideways and awkward. And then I landed in the azalea bushes. My arm was broken, along with my dreams of being the type of kid that cheered when her father returned. 

There was a trip to the hospital where my mother groomed me on what to tell the doctor. Be sure to tell him you fell off the porch as if there were some other versions of the story that needed concealing.