3carni CAMPUS CEARNING RESOURCr. UBFLARY of Freshman Writing Volume 3,Number 1 111- Florida Community College atJacksonville Winter 1993 Learning When to Put Your ShoesOn by KathyPoach Myfather thoughtthe Woodstock Festival,held last summer,was a large gathering of amoral drug addicts and Com- munists. To me,it was a gathering of my peers,a music festival,a celebration ofyouth and American freedom:a political statement. Before my father was diagnosed with cancer,he wore a blue,black,or grey suit,crisp white shirt,plain tie,top Coat,and felt hatto work every day. In the summer,he removed the top coat and felt hat and placed the hat carefully in a box in the closet. I wearfaded,tattered bluejeans with flowers embroidered down the left pantleg.I have a beaded headband and a leather choker that displays a small peace symbol.I make a pointofkicking off my shoes whenever I can. Stuffing the Communist Manifestointo my backpack I head for my first class. Had my dad been well enough,he would have burned that book along with my Jinn Hendrix album.The Manifesto survived becauseitis mandatory reading for my sociology class.The professor's choice ofreading material isenough evidence for my father to label him a Communist.Hethinks Communists are infiltrating the school system and the music industry.They are brainwashing American youth and,in his opinion, will certainly win the Cold War without firing a shot. Today I take the Elevated train, then catch a bus to campus.I reach my first class,and attached to the door is a handwritten note:"Class canceled. Vietnam Anti-War Rally at 10:00in front ofthe Bryan Building. See you there!"The rallies and the marches can wait.I decide to visit my father whois lying in a bed in a New York Hospital. After traveling back across town,I enter the enormous institution and follow the red arrows painted on the floor thatlead to the elevators.I getoffon the seventh floor and follow the blue arrows. "Like bumper cars,the generations are sideswiping each other and,more often, colliding head on." The blue arrows splitinto light and dark blue. Ifollow the dark ones. Reaching his room,I feel the scentsmack mein the face. It permeates my clothes and seeps into my pores. It's alcohol and disinfectant mixed with a sickening sweetsmell thatI've come to recognize. Thatunique odor comes from the nutrientfluid thatis poured into a holein my father's side tofeed him. I pass the first man lying in the bed nearest the door without staring at him. A pale blue privacy curtain is pulled around my father's bed. I wait for the nurses to finish feeding him and then peek my head around the curtain. He's wincing in pain and asks the nurse for medication. I wait until she returns with the morphine injection. He's an old man ofonly fifty-two years. His peppered beard is out of control,and wisps offine hair lie lightly on top ofa growing bald spot. My father is frail; his complexion is so ashen he hardly seems there at all. "Hi,Dad.How are you doing today?" My dad turns his head toward me and weakly replies,"Nottoo well,Sweetheart." I take his hands and think of the times they lifted me high over his head making me burstinto delightful giggles. My father looks at me with worried eyes and asks,"Why don't you wear any shoes? If you don't wear shoes,you'll get your feet cut." Silence.The question sits unanswered,hanging in the air then drifting like the lazy smoke from chimneys on a cold still night I try to think of an answer that would defend my position on American freedoms,specifically the rightto barefootedness...the right to slash one's feet on crushed Coke bottles and to feel the squish ofdog feces between one's toes. I take a step back and glance at my feet. I'm wearing shoes today. I move forward and look at my father's emaciated face. His lips are cracked,and in his reddened,glassy eyes,I see a plea. Suddenly,this simple question has nothing to do with whether or not I have a piece ofleather attached to my feet It is a question thatevery father asks his child. Why? Why can't you conform? Why must you test the established laws and traditions? Why must you take an axe to the foundations I have worked so hard to build? He is a dying man desperately trying to understand his (Continued on page2) , OCR Text: 3carni CAMPUS CEARNING RESOURCr. UBFLARY of Freshman Writing Volume 3,Number 1 111- Florida Community College atJacksonville Winter 1993 Learning When to Put Your ShoesOn by KathyPoach Myfather thoughtthe Woodstock Festival,held last summer,was a large gathering of amoral drug addicts and Com- munists. To me,it was a gathering of my peers,a music festival,a celebration ofyouth and American freedom:a political statement. Before my father was diagnosed with cancer,he wore a blue,black,or grey suit,crisp white shirt,plain tie,top Coat,and felt hatto work every day. In the summer,he removed the top coat and felt hat and placed the hat carefully in a box in the closet. I wearfaded,tattered bluejeans with flowers embroidered down the left pantleg.I have a beaded headband and a leather choker that displays a small peace symbol.I make a pointofkicking off my shoes whenever I can. Stuffing the Communist Manifestointo my backpack I head for my first class. Had my dad been well enough,he would have burned that book along with my Jinn Hendrix album.The Manifesto survived becauseitis mandatory reading for my sociology class.The professor's choice ofreading material isenough evidence for my father to label him a Communist.Hethinks Communists are infiltrating the school system and the music industry.They are brainwashing American youth and,in his opinion, will certainly win the Cold War without firing a shot. Today I take the Elevated train, then catch a bus to campus.I reach my first class,and attached to the door is a handwritten note:"Class canceled. Vietnam Anti-War Rally at 10:00in front ofthe Bryan Building. See you there!"The rallies and the marches can wait.I decide to visit my father whois lying in a bed in a New York Hospital. After traveling back across town,I enter the enormous institution and follow the red arrows painted on the floor thatlead to the elevators.I getoffon the seventh floor and follow the blue arrows. "Like bumper cars,the generations are sideswiping each other and,more often, colliding head on." The blue arrows splitinto light and dark blue. Ifollow the dark ones. Reaching his room,I feel the scentsmack mein the face. It permeates my clothes and seeps into my pores. It's alcohol and disinfectant mixed with a sickening sweetsmell thatI've come to recognize. Thatunique odor comes from the nutrientfluid thatis poured into a holein my father's side tofeed him. I pass the first man lying in the bed nearest the door without staring at him. A pale blue privacy curtain is pulled around my father's bed. I wait for the nurses to finish feeding him and then peek my head around the curtain. He's wincing in pain and asks the nurse for medication. I wait until she returns with the morphine injection. He's an old man ofonly fifty-two years. His peppered beard is out of control,and wisps offine hair lie lightly on top ofa growing bald spot. My father is frail; his complexion is so ashen he hardly seems there at all. "Hi,Dad.How are you doing today?" My dad turns his head toward me and weakly replies,"Nottoo well,Sweetheart." I take his hands and think of the times they lifted me high over his head making me burstinto delightful giggles. My father looks at me with worried eyes and asks,"Why don't you wear any shoes? If you don't wear shoes,you'll get your feet cut." Silence.The question sits unanswered,hanging in the air then drifting like the lazy smoke from chimneys on a cold still night I try to think of an answer that would defend my position on American freedoms,specifically the rightto barefootedness...the right to slash one's feet on crushed Coke bottles and to feel the squish ofdog feces between one's toes. I take a step back and glance at my feet. I'm wearing shoes today. I move forward and look at my father's emaciated face. His lips are cracked,and in his reddened,glassy eyes,I see a plea. Suddenly,this simple question has nothing to do with whether or not I have a piece ofleather attached to my feet It is a question thatevery father asks his child. Why? Why can't you conform? Why must you test the established laws and traditions? Why must you take an axe to the foundations I have worked so hard to build? He is a dying man desperately trying to understand his (Continued on page2) , Z ArchiveInABox,JAX,Voices of Freshman Writing,Scans,1993 Winter,1993 Winter 1 Page 1, 1993 Winter 1 Page 1