Lex Chilson

Lex Chilson is a writer hailing from the North Side of Chicago. She is currently studying at the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, pursuing a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree with an emphasis in writing. She has previously been published in Rookie Mag, Runestone, Dime Show Review, and elsewhere. You can usually find her by Lake Michigan.

Open Letter to My Father / Reflections on Childhood Photos

I take pride in the effort I’ve made in trying to forget you. After years of practice, explaining my complicated relationship with you to the men I date is easy, your silhouette no longer scares me. I tip-toe around what actually happened in the end and all of the in-between tension leading up to it. And yes, I still look over my shoulder to make sure you’re not following me. But to explain my trauma has still become second nature. You have warped me into pity—a stand-in for just another artist with daddy issues. You have turned me into the cliché fueled by memories, to let myself live by the past cautiously. I have made boundaries. I have kept myself guarded. I have never been so defensive. I have changed into a private person. I am closed. I am (usually) prepared when it comes to you. I have taken action to know what is going to remind me of you. I am now able to recognize Van Morrison’s “Brown Eyed Girl” on cue, and a shift of the radio dial protects me from our one good memory. I avoid the places you used to take me: the Humboldt Park lagoon, Albion beach, the McDonald’s on North Ave, 3260 W. LeMoyne. I relish the moments where I cave in and let myself miss you. Sometimes, I make Jimmy drive me to Humboldt Park just so I can see the imprint of your new family, my replacement. Sometimes we share jibaritos and speak in tongues of how much you used to mean to me, how much sometimes it hurts. I remember the routes we used to take between mom’s house and yours, the path we’d take walks on for our dog Shadow, how to get to the nail salon during the summer, the houses to avoid. I remember how to look for roaches in inconvenient spots, and I still check my shoes just to be careful. I remember all of the women kept around, and sometimes I still run into them. Sometimes I’m surprised I don’t run into you more often, and I thank Chicago for its crowds. I thank Chicago for its 77 neighborhoods, and all the intersections in-between.

I know you do not call Humboldt Park your home anymore. I know Hermosa has become your place with your new family. I know you still call North Ave ‘home’ in a new context. Sometimes I wonder if Paseo Boricua also reminds you of me, the old theater at Clemente where we used to go to church, where you parked your (now old) car the last time I came over. I wonder if you ever stop by Humboldt Park for a visit and if you’re still flooded with memories of the weekends spent at your house. There are parts of you I will never be able to detach myself from. I’ll walk by a mirror and catch a glimpse of you and admittedly wonder if you do the same. I look at my eyes, my lips, my cheeks, the darkness of my features and wonder if you do the same. To have once referred to me as your ‘shadow’ or your ‘twin’ when things were good between us. There are certain parts of my personality I cannot help but blame you for. The relentless need to find the answers to things, even when I know they cannot be explained. My obsession with video games on any and every platform. My preference for turkey sandwiches. How easy it is for me to leave someone, even when I know it will hurt them far more than me. How arrogant we can both be. How potent our words can leak from our tongue before we can wipe our mouths with decency. Sometimes I let myself warp into the essence of you and reattach the parts I’ve tried to hide. Sometimes I wish I had more of you. I remember the old ‘ski mask’ you gave me to protect me in the cold, the residue of old Newports (green) and food grease burning my nose. I sometimes can remember what it felt like to hug you, how much taller you are than me. (I still sometimes wish I was just as tall.) Sometimes I remember dividing who would get what when you died; and I always called your hoodies, your Ecko t-shirts, and video games. I remember Yolanda’s arroz con gandules and how much you loved RedBull (me too). There are no more physical objects to remind me of you, everything I have has been replaced since I met you.

I will admit, there are a few old photographs—all prior to you and mom separating. I do not remember any of them. Some are from the hospital, some are from my baptism, one or two are from the old house with the red door. There is no actual evidence of how close we were. There is no evidence of all of the nights I spent wishing you were next to me, the nights you’d let me share a bowl of cereal and watch TV with you. The thirteen years I spent missing you even when you were right next to me are only documented mentally. It has felt like a secret between us. It has felt like something I have tried to push out for so long, but you always sneak your way into lines of my writing. You were always able to take up that space. I have always let you take up that space. And I am still letting you take up that space, regrettably. And I know my memories are romanticized. I know things have been bad much longer than I remember, and it is hard to argue that things were ever anything other than bad. And I will say, we both do a damn-good job at pretending to be better than we really are. We have mastered the skill of reattaching ourselves from situations emotionally but physically remain. You have, in a way, made me the master of being distant. But that is not to suggest you are a monster; I do not think you are a monster. I do not see you as a creature with massive teeth looking to consume everyone in my life, blooding and spit leaking from your tainted tongue. You are not el cucuy, you are just a man. A man who sets himself up for more than he can handle, which I do too. Perhaps we are both monsters. You know I will always love you, even with every ache in my jaw to muster out those three words. The truth is, you are my biggest weakness. This is not new information to you, you are aware of the power you hold in your voice. So when you ask, “why are you crying?” after seven years of me trying to forget what the sound of your voice sounds like (and succeeding) and you decide to call me out of the blue, do not act so surprised. To you, I am the same person I was when you last heard from me. I am a shell of a past-version of myself I have worked hard to forget. I am the young girl who didn’t want to believe in a God who didn’t (and still doesn’t) answer my prayers. I am the thirteen-year-old trying to fill the void of an absent father through having sex, to try and use my body for something good. I am the memories of you screaming at me in a car, your new family sitting next to us in silence. I am the memories of lost virginity hidden in-between my teeth and your new replacement-daughter, Imani. You always made me feel so guilty for crying all the time, for letting my emotions guide me through every step of the way and overpowering my logic. You made me feel weak for crying in unconventional times and spaces. Seven years have passed, and yes, I’m still crying. But at least I know I have tried to drain the memories you’ve taken up in my brain. I have given you less space to take up. I have forgotten what your voice sounds like. I have forgotten what it feels like to hold your hand. I have forgotten what your order is at the Hollywood grill and how you like your pizza. And sometimes I still find myself sitting at the lake alone, wondering if you can see the waves too. I wonder if you miss me in the same way I miss you, with regret and spite. I wonder if the lake reminds you of home and everything we used to do together. To fill my body with lakewater and feel whole for the first time in a long time. I wonder if you still think about me. And I hope it makes you smile. And I hope you know, I am so much better off without you and everything you tried to take away from me. See you around, Lex

the years have swallowed most moments and wiped their mouths of evidence. there are moments that stick to the back of throats and cling on teeth; memories carved into handprints and fingertips. there are moments where our memories mingle with dreams and breed different versions of us. 

there is only so much you can remember,

and there is not much left from Before. you may find a story buried in this house. myths carefully sewn into couch cushions and shower curtains. there are only a few photographs, a letter never sent, and some trinkets out-of-context left in a box. a box tucked in the back of a closet, a few envelopes in floorboards, some dirt swept under a rug. the sound of mother cooking in the kitchen as her daughter listens.

a growing girl intertwined with the past: a living breath of ancestry and curiosity. she asks questions without answers (or at least any good ones) and sits in silence after. She searches eyes for clues and listens to the in-between breaths of her mother’s flashbacks. 

there is no longer a need for photographs. 

there is only truth

and rememory.

the slow unraveling of a household and the cries that followed. a new apartment and every one after that. the squeaky staircases of Chicago apartments and the familiar smell of a hallway. the past locked behind doors of an old house. the photographs left behind. the tearstains on the wallpaper. the holes in the wall. 

i do not know if it is worse to imagine a new family covering up our imprint or living in it as though we are invisible. 

i can only hold on to the present

and reimagine the future. 

to grow into a writer so in love with the past and its intricacies. to constantly chase something as it fades. to move from home to home in childhood, only to be left with reflections in adulthood. to build a home out of the unspoken and all that’s left unsaid: the in-between truths and delusions. 

to hold onto the last photograph saved. the last piece of Before.

thank it, and leave it behind.