If Xandra would like to continue in future Pemberley theater productions, this letter will need to be signed by Xandra and parents and returned to me before the start of winter term. I hope this break will provide much-needed reflection time for Xandra.
Thank you.
Dave Petrov
Theater Department Chair
Pemberley School
Neither Dad nor I speak. In this day, a written letter is sent only in dire circumstances. I rarely have to communicate beyond an email or phone call. I’m contemplating heading back to grab Xandra from her tech coma and dragging her butt out here to deal with this and explain it to her grandfather. Luckily, greater parental sense prevails.
“Sounds like Xandra’s drama teacher may be Russian. And formal. Perhaps with his accent he’s difficult to understand and there were some misunderstood communications with Xandra,” I offer out loud, grasping for a solid excuse for my daughter though I know there isn’t one.
“His name’s Dave, so I’m guessing his English is just fine. And I understand Dave Petrov loud and clear. Xandra has shown her teacher all kinds of disrespect, and she has crossed his line.” As an immigrant and a dedicated Christian, Fitzroy has very clear parameters on how one lives life. In Dad’s mind, following the principles established by both personas was essential in his adopted country to ensure people wouldn’t whisper about your comings and goings and attention wouldn’t be called your way. Behave and blend in or be sorry was how we were raised.
“That’s not the granddaughter I know. And I also know you didn’t teach her any of those ill manners. Lord knows your mother and I never taught them to you.” Dad’s viewpoint on his and Celia’s impeccable parenting is surfacing.
“So, Nina, what’re you gonna do about this?” Dad asks, looking right at me, jaw set. Oh, this is rich. When Xandra is fit for public consumption—well dressed, well behaved, and well turned out—Fitzroy’s there to lap up the credit and the compliments. But as the second generation of our immigrant family begins to stray from the prescribed code of conduct, it’s all my fault and my job to get her back in line. A straight line, and quick.
“I can’t believe I’m going to have to repeat myself,” Dad continues. I can tell he’s getting revved up and about to take this family gathering from gentle to gloves off. “Nina, I told you to move Xandra out of that living situation with Dash at the first sign of trouble this fall, and you didn’t do it. So here we are sippin’ on tea, fretting over Xandra and her future. A girl like Xandra doesn’t turn without some wayward influence. Don’t I know it, I saw it play out time and time again on our block. Those that know better don’t always do better.”
It’s easy for Dad to lay blame on Dash, but deep down I know that I’m the one who lit Xandra’s rebellious flame. I suspect Xandra’s behavior has little to do with her roommate being militant or her drama teacher being racist and everything to do with her mother being with a man who’s the opposite of her father. And now that man is taking her mother and creating a brand-new family that she’s not sure has a place for her.
“You know what, Xandra thinks she’s grown. It’s time to bring her into the kitchen, let her read the letter, and explain herself.” And, I think to myself, force her to share her true feelings about me and Leo.
“I’ll go get her,” Dad offers, and I accept, giving myself an extra minute to refine my opening line.
“What’s up? I’m FaceTiming with Dash. Yesterday she was helping her mom’s friend host a neighborhood watch meeting in Cabrini-Green, and right now she’s on her way to a protest. Apparently, the new African savanna installation at the Field Museum was designed by an Asian architect. My life’s so boring!”
“Seriously? The planet’s imploding, but there’s a protest over an architect that builds life-size dioramas for a living. Should the architect be African American, or does he have to be born in Africa, Black or White will do? Or real deal African with a click in his mother tongue and all?” Not the conversation opener I was planning, my emotions are already too hot and starting the conversation off with Dash at the center is making me fume.
“You should be happy you’re home in Pasadena, your bed has a blanket, the light bill is paid, and the icebox has milk. If you’re bored, the garage needs to be swept out, or you can put some elbow grease to those windows,” Dad claps back at Xandra. Okay now, clearly we’re both on board to tell Xandra what’s what. Dad just took two verbal steps over his grandbaby to join my side.
“Sit down and get comfortable, because we’re going to get into it, and no one is getting out of this family meeting without some clarity about what’s going on with you, Xandra,” I say, pausing to take a breath to let the mission of this conversation settle in with the three of us. Before I can speak, Dad, usually the reserved one with his words, pounces.
“It’s time to get down to the nitty-gritty, baby girl, and we’re going to start at the top. What did you do to your crown? Hair is power. Did all those nights of me lulling you to sleep with the story of Samson and Delilah go in one ear and out the other?” Dad asks, running his big bus-driving hands over Xandra’s bleached skull. I can think back on a hundred times when Dad would praise me for straightening Xandra’s hair, making sure it laid flat like all the other girls at Royal-Hawkins. The more Xandra and I blended in with the dominant American culture, the more it pleased Dad that we could walk through the world without inviting trouble, and he could rest easy. Dad’s not resting easy now.
“And those piercings, I can’t imagine what germy, dirty hands touched your ears. I’m surprised one hasn’t swollen up, crusted over, and fallen off.” Dad is now pulling on Xandra’s right ear, inspecting it for either cleanliness or crud. At this point, I’ve decided to sit back and let him work over Xandra. He’s killin’ it.
“Dash took me to the place where her cousin got her piercings. It was in a mall, so it was cheaper than doing it at a tattoo parlor. Those places are hella expensive,” Xandra informs, proud that she did her due diligence and got the equivalent of a teenage Yelp review.
“You relied on someone you don’t even know to tell you where to get minor surgery on your body?” Now I’m grabbing Xandra’s other ear. “Apparently four times! I know you don’t have the extra money at school to get a piercing done right one time, let alone four!” I step back to examine Xandra, and I don’t see my little girl anymore. I don’t see the girl whose hair I braided, barretted, and bunned day after day, year after year. I see a young woman attempting to assert her independence. And based on her current lack of style, she’s doing it badly.
I realize we need to get off the superficial and get into the content of Mr. Petrov’s concerns. I hand Xandra the letter. “Some Christmas cheer from your drama teacher to me. Minus the cheer.”
Steeled to hear Xandra’s side of the story I ask, “So, what do you think?”
“In rehearsals a few of us were joking around and talking during our five-minute break,” she begins, and I see my dad wince at her admission of goofing off at school. “We didn’t hear Mr. Petrov call out that break was over. When we didn’t stop talking, he marched over, looked right at me, not at the other girls, but at me and said, ‘As long as you’re part of this program, I own your time and I own your attention.’”