WHAT WE HIDE by ASHLEE BOWCOTT B.A. Depaul University
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WHAT WE HIDE by ASHLEE BOWCOTT B.A. DePaul University, 2013 A thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in the Department of English in the College of Arts and Humanities at the University of Central Florida Orlando, Florida Spring Term 2015 Major Professor: Terry Thaxton ©2015 Ashlee Bowcott ii ABSTRACT What We Hide is a collection of memoir essays that explores the themes of mystery and deception in personal relationships, specifically within familial and romantic ones. Though the essays in the collection explore the decades from early in the narrator’s childhood through her move to Florida for graduate school, the narrator’s keen discernment of the world around her and her curiosity for what experiences shape a person’s character remain constant. Many essays explore the extent of her father’s alcoholism and the consequences of it, as well as the narrator’s obsession over the possible sources of his addictions. Other essays examine the narrator’s relationships with men beginning when she enters high school and question the extent to which her strained relationship with her father both excuses and/or explains the way she deceives and allows herself to be deceived in these relationships. What We Hide is endlessly implicating and looks for the accountability of these situations from all sources. The narrator delves into the sneakiness of her parents’ courtship, the accusations that become commonplace during their divorce, the ways in which the narrator lies to family, friends, and boyfriends for her own selfish motives, and how each of these experiences shapes subsequent ones. What We Hide uses personal experience, emails, and newspaper articles to demonstrate the vulnerability, contradictions, and complications that are inherent in all of us as humans and how these weaknesses manifest themselves in the relationships with those we are closest with. iii TABLE OF CONTENTS CLUES .......................................................................................................................................1 BY BASEBALL SEASON ....................................................................................................... 18 HOW TO RUIN YOUR BOYFRIEND’S IDEAL OF HIS FATHER ........................................ 40 EVERY DRIVE IS ANOTHER STORY ................................................................................... 45 WHAT WE HIDE ..................................................................................................................... 68 ON MY FIRST TIME DRINKING ........................................................................................... 81 BEFORE YOU GO ................................................................................................................... 95 LEARNING TO GRIEVE, TO HURT, TO HIDE ................................................................... 111 A TIME TO PRETEND .......................................................................................................... 121 THE LIQUOR DOESN’T KEEP PROMISES ......................................................................... 134 HERE WE ARE, AFTER DARK ............................................................................................ 148 THE BACK COURSE ............................................................................................................ 168 TEN LIES ON A STREET IN NASHVILLE .......................................................................... 180 MEN I’VE THOUGHT I LOVED .......................................................................................... 188 A HISTORY OTHERWISE LOST ......................................................................................... 202 NOTES FROM MY FATHER ................................................................................................ 228 APPENDIX: READING LIST ................................................................................................ 254 iv CLUES The times I think I could love my father, he’s wearing a three-piece suit. A thrift store purchase, the suit hangs proudly in his closet in a beige garment bag. He doesn’t wear it often, but it is dry-cleaned regularly—the black fabric pressed stiff and spotless. The first time he wore it we were at my cousin’s wedding in California. I’d just finished third grade, and my father offered me a glass of champagne to toast the new couple. He told me I could have the whole glass since it was a special occasion, but after one sip, I set the flute down, smacking my lips together as I tried to understand what the big deal was about alcohol. Toward the end of the night, “Brown Eyed Girl” played: his song with my mom. Since they separated and I was an identical version of her younger self, it became our song. He asked me to dance. As he spun me around, the stagnant blue of his eyes became shaky, like tiny ripples that water bugs create as they sit atop the stillness of a lake. When the wedding photographer stopped our twirling to take a picture, I stepped on my father’s feet to look tall. He pulled me closer than he ever had—me in my short-sleeved pink dress with beaded butterfly design and him in his suit and black bow tie. He would later crop me out of this picture, asking for my help uploading it to several of the dating sites he used, but the quivery blue of his eyes would remain. The only other times I saw him in this suit, I called him Jeeves. He still wore the black bow tie and combed his shining hair across his head, but he also draped a towel over the sleeve of his suit coat. The plush emeralds and plums of each towel were monogrammed with different initials of the families he purchased them from at estate sales along the wealthy north shore of Chicago. He carried tarnished silver trays, passed down through his family, full of chicken teriyaki, barbecue chicken, mashed potatoes, and local steamed corn. Though he didn’t fake an accent, he spoke in an elevated language that I imagined he used when he wanted his students at 1 the university where he taught to think he was particularly smart. When he wore this suit, he and I were comrades. No longer father and daughter, or the ever more complicated father and daughter-of-an-alcoholic, we were working together to suspend disbelief, to neglect reality and enter into an imaginative world where I was a silent film movie star, he was a butler, and twelve of my closest (also famous) friends were invited over for dinner. It was a reality that we could never hold onto for long, one we had forged together. One that we saved for the nights I hosted these parties. In junior high, I found a Clue murder mystery party game at a yard sale and became obsessed with mysteries. Since divorcing my mother a couple years earlier, my father was eager to do anything for us kids that would give him the upper-hand as favorite parent. For me this meant his constant approval for me to invite as many friends as I wanted and host parties at his house. I spent the time at my father’s hogging the single phone line to research party tips on the Internet. I looked up costumes, hairstyles, and names from the 1920s: the decade I thought lent itself best to a night of secrecy and faux-murder. I hated staying at my dad’s house. My younger brother fared better while I kept to myself in the office; the two of them watched sports until my brother fell asleep, leaving my dad to drink without worrying that my brother or I would smell it on his breath. The way my dad acted late in the night, stumbling up the back stairs as he grasped for the railing he never finished building or past my doorway, slurring angry half-words to himself, scared me. When I was party planning though, I tolerated the visits, if only for the fact that he had inherited a computer from his investment banker brother while my mom would not be able to afford one for years. 2 I spent all night in his office, tailoring the names and occupations of the dinner party attendees until I had one that fit each of my friends. I made handwritten invitations—a frustrating attempt to copy a gothic font I’d found on the Internet—that I would not so secretly hand out in the junior high hallway of our small Catholic school. Each invitation contained a character bio, letting the girl know what her name and background were, and also how to dress on the night of the party. It was tough to choose a date that thirteen girls could attend, so I gave them invitations more than a month before the party. In the weeks leading up to the party, I grew anxious. I decided I was bored with the run-of-the-mill murdered-murderer dinner party. So I complicated things. The dining room table had been set for weeks after my dad added the extender to the antique table to make room for all the guests. I placed character name cards at each seat, positioning myself between the two girls who were my favorite at the time. I included another notecard beneath each girl’s China plate. The notecard contained a list of the character’s friends and enemies, additional tasks the girl had to complete during the party, and secrets she had to guard or use to bargain so she may complete her tasks. I was trying to create three-dimensional characters, ones that helped the girls see the reality I created. I handwrote the notecards, but my friends never accused me of using the knowledge to cheat at the game we played. I did. A few times. The desire to not only be well liked but the most-liked, was too strong not to. On party days, I got to skip mass with