My Father Embarrassed Me So Often That Nothing Shocks Me Anymore

People think I’m patient, but the truth is much stranger

The bikini underwear wasn’t even the worst part… Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

“Sherene, you really are the best match for Jimbo. We were all worried he’d never find someone who could handle him. You take everything in stride. How do you do it?

If I had a dollar for every time one of Jimbo’s oldest friends asked me this question, I’d be rich.

Over the last fifteen years I’ve thought about my threshold for annoyance and embarrassment and I’ve realized the key:

My father.

Growing up, I spent my entire childhood and young adult life with a father who never quite understood American culture and lacked boundaries.

People seem to think I have endless patience for my husband Jimbo.

That I was born laid back.

I wasn’t.

I was trained.

I learned early on that survival required laughing off my father’s rude behavior and embarrassing antics. He thought he was funny, but I knew the truth.

He was an asshole.

My friends thought my father was hilarious. I just wanted to disappear.

What seemed like fun to everyone else was hell for me.

When I suggested having a sleepover for my thirteenth birthday party, I didn’t think it through. My mother was excited to host it, despite my father’s vehement opposition to the idea.

“Sherene, why you must have kids over here to sleep? Children belong to their homes in their own beds!”

He didn’t understand American adolescent culture or ritual.

“Why do your friends have to sleep at my house? Don’t their parents care where they are?”

Trying to explain the joy of sleeping over at a friend’s house was useless, but somehow my mom convinced him. She always found a way to fight for me.

The weekend of my birthday party arrived. Four of my closest friends and my sister were there to partake in the fun. I was excited, but also nervous — I wanted everyone to have fun and think I was “cool” and grown up. I mean, I was a teenager now. Wasn’t I supposed to be more mature and leave behind childish things like dolls and tea parties?

We spent most of the night prank-calling other kids from school, eating pizza, and junky snacks while watching movies and MTV. My father was drinking a six-pack of beer and would later move on to the harder stuff. He was in rare form that evening, acting like an ass just to make my friends laugh. His version of comedy was making fun of me, the actors on TV, my friends, or my mom.

His first order of business was giving my friend Mackenzie a nickname in Farsi: Maghass, which means housefly. That nickname stuck until she switched schools in the tenth grade. Mackenzie laughed — so did everyone else. What they didn’t realize was that my father was being mean. It wasn’t a term of endearment; it was his passive-aggressive way of dealing with the resentment. He didn’t want four teenage girls in his house on a Friday night, and I knew it.

At one point, he danced across the wood floor in the living room while we watched hip-hop videos on MTV. He hitched his shorts high and stomped around, chanting gibberish, performing what he thought African dancers looked like. My friends howled with laughter. I laughed, too, but inside I wanted to scream.

He left the room, and I felt the weight lift off my shoulders.

Later that night, my friend Mackenzie was the first to fall asleep, so we dipped her bra in water and shoved it into the freezer. I’m pretty certain we also drew on her face with eyeliner. The giggles kept rolling until someone brought up my father’s dancing again. When Sasha broke into laughter, I knew I was doomed.

“Oh, Sherene, your dad is so funny! Does he always dance with his shorts up his butt?” Sasha snorted with laughter.

I laughed it off and said, “Only sometimes.”

I couldn’t bear to inform her that he often pulled stunts like that.

Then she started in about how my dad cusses — because clearly, I wasn’t weird enough.

All of my friends were lying on the floor in their sleeping bags, rolling around while holding their stomachs with laughter. At one point, Sasha began to snort again.

“Sheedeen! What the sheet are you doing? Get me some toilet paper!” Sasha howled in his accent, and the others doubled over. I laughed with them, but inside my stomach twisted. To me, it was another reminder that I would never fit their version of ordinary.

I sighed, pushed it down, and eventually joined them in a game of Truth or Dare before we all drifted off into a pizza and Pepsi coma.

The following week at school, my party was the talk of our little circle. My friends were all perfecting my father’s accent and making jokes.

“Ha! Your dad says ‘sheet’ instead of shit!” Sasha howled, and the others doubled over.

I wished they’d move on and make fun of something else. Hearing his accent tumble out of their mouths made my insides twist into knots.

Eventually, my friends moved on from my father’s antics. I learned to ignore him when he hit on servers or fought with customer service reps.

My father taught me patience because it was required for survival. I learned not to be embarrassed when a situation was merely awkward, funny, or harmless.

So when my husband announces he’s going to drop the kids off at the pool after dinner, or farts in the aisles of a store, I laugh.

His behavior might embarrass most people.

But compared to my father, it’s just another Tuesday.

This wasn’t the only way my father scarred me. A Man’s Laundry Is My Worst Nightmare explains why men’s bikini briefs still make me recoil.

[embed]A Man’s Laundry is My Worst Nightmare How my father’s bikini briefs cursed my love life for decadesmedium.com

This story comes from the prequel to my memoir, Nobody’s Princess. If you’d like to read the rest of my story, you can find the book here:

[embed]Nobody's Princess: A Shaped Series Prequel Before I became , I was shattered. is the story of how the girl I used to be learned what love wasn't-long before she…www.amazon.com