My Daughter’s Prom, My Old Ghosts, and the Unwritten Mercy of Time

God has a sense of humour. Sometimes, the curse skips a generation. And sometimes, that’s enough.

My daughter Georgina¹ crossed the stage and graduated from high school today. Georgina is a beautiful girl, and I believe my assessment is more than the bias of a proud father; I see her as a child born of an ironic God, for she is the progeny of a father whose childhood was framed by years of taunts of “ugly, freak, living abortion, and monster.” 

Even today, I vividly remember opening a door at a family friend’s house over fifty years ago and stepping into someone else’s conversation. When the door opened, the words hung brightly, suspended; six breaths were drawn in, and diaphragms were paralysed for a pregnant second. 

“Their puppy is cute, but Paul is so ugly, a complete freak. Not human.”  

I spent the evening in a corner of the basement, squeezed between a chest freezer and the wall. People say 'sticks and stones,' but I was six; it was as if my tribe had gathered together to face me on the edge of a great forest, and they had banished me. I thought I was safe amongst friends.