Mark's Pages

March 21, 2004:

Short hair, neat, muscles, baseball jersey. Thick neck, tense, literally red.

Around the table the children sit stiffly with eyes to their plates. Nobody speaks, nobody looks up, nobody smiles, nobody laughs. It's as if by withdrawing into imaginary cocoons they could escape the inevitable.

"I promise this is the last time," says Father. His voice is surprisingly shrill for such a burly man; almost effeminate. "You're acting like a bunch of retards or something."

Eyes down, nobody speaks, nobody knows what's expected, only that whatever they do will be wrong, and whatever Father says will be critical.

Night out in the homeland of family values.