by Jerry Williams

Created on: August 27, 2009

MONDAY

For a Monday, the evening was going well. It was my father's birthday, and I assumed with my nine-year-old naivet that my dad was enjoying his day. He wasn't seething as he did most days, especially Mondays.

My mom fixed him his favorite meal: ham, fried potatoes, and navy beans. Maybe the food lightened his typically stormy disposition, but it did little to please me or my siblings, older sister Teddi and older brother Jeff. We pushed our servings around on our plates, waiting to fill up on the cake and ice cream to follow.

American suppers in 1969 were more the ideal, at least in terms of attendance. Dinner was always scheduled around the bread-winner, generally at the same time each day through the week. Some fathers stopped for beers after work while others didn't, but the time each got home usually didn't vary.

My dad followed a similar routine; the only mystery was the extent of his anger each day. If I heard my father stomp across our wooden porch and bang the screen door open and closed, I knew an evening of bellowing and abuse from the large man was likely.

Serving dishes hit our table at 5:30 sharp, with everyone in their places. We kids knew to take a little of everything and to pretend to eat the things we didn't like so as not to anger our father. In the months leading up to my dad's birthday, the imposing man rarely seemed to be in a civil mood.

But the birthday dinner went smoothly. My dad feasted on the navy beans in particular, and everyone's cake and ice cream went down in relative pleasant quiet.

While the last of the ice cream was being scraped from bowls, my mom handed my dad a birthday present with a flourish. She seemed eager to have him open the package, as was Teddi, who must've known what it contained. I remember being suspicious of the rectangular box.

Looks like a shirt, My dad said as picked at the package's tape. He methodically unwrapped the gift with his thick hands, maintaining the paper in one piece, which he dropped casually beside his chair. My brother and I craned our necks for better views, while my mom and sister sat back with knowing smiles.

I could see through the tissue paper in the box that the gift was strange in color.

It's a pink shirt! My dad said in surprise. It's a goddamn pink shirt! As my dad took a better look, I saw it was like the other short-sleeve dress shirts my father wore to the office except that it was light pink in color.

Back in '69, pink wasn't the new black: it was just pink.

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