“American Gothic” by Grant Wood (1930)

“American Gothic” by Grant Wood (1930)

Source: American Gothic. Totally History,n.d., totallyhistory.com/american-gothic/. (Accessed 28 Jan 2019)

As I look at my ailing and aging father, I wonder if I will ever leave this town. This dusty and hot hamlet where every proud farm owner carries a farming tool. This town where every breath carries the scent and shafts of corn and wheat, which bring pride to our farmers. I often joke that my village is strapped in a time capsule as buildings, streets, and even houses retain the same gothic design that appealed to my great grandfather moved his family here. I have always wanted to move to a different city since I was a child. It dawns on me that I am aging at a fast rate. The thought that I may never have a family of my own saddens me. I am overwhelmed when I imagine what will become of me when my father ultimately dies. I have dedicated my youth to caring for him. Caring for this hopeless farmer who wears the same pair of blue jeans overalls and a white shirt, all worn out and rough from years of use, when going to town or tending to the wheat. When he wants to look neat like for a Sunday service, he would wear his black coat and happily say, “Don’t I look 20!” The high likelihood that he may soon leave me causes me to ponder about my future. I have known no other life than the one I live with my father, as his daughter, friend, and caretaker. At the same time, I am reminded of why I chose this life. When my mother deserted us, we vowed to take care of each other. But I worry as I do not want to live this life alone, without him by my side.

As a young girl, I dreamt of moving out of our humble home. I hoped to explore the world. To explore different scents. To walk in clear skies that were not polluted by shafts and dust from farms, which hurt my eyes so much that I got used to the pain. To see new and modern building designs that I saw in atlases. The sad reality is that I have been trapped in this village all my life and will die here unless I make a drastic change.

I love my father; he has been good to me. My father cared for me and loved me even when his wife deserted him. Every time I looked and touched his blistered and rough hands, I was proud of this man because he worked very hard to provide for me. On the other end, I am angry at my mother for condemning me to a life of loneliness, sadness, and responsibility. Each time I see my peers get married or have a child, I feel envious and angry. I try hard to fight my tears in public, but at night, I drown in them. As the years pass by, I become more bitter. I yearn for a day that I will be called a wife or a mother, but I am resigned to my fate.

Although I try my best not to dwell on “what ifs,” my mind still wanders in dark places. I am ashamed to say that, at times, I wish my father gone. He was old and had that ‘old-people smell’ combined with sweat. Worse still, he refused to shower at times, and the whole house smelled like an ammonia plant. His death would rid me of his stench and the burden of caring for him. I feel trapped in this old house, and I have no way out. Although I want so much to be free, the promise I made holds me back. I would rather remain in this situation for eternity than betray him.

I want to live, will I ever live? I ask myself over and over, yet I receive no answer. I want to be desired alike other women. I once looked in the mirror, and I was horrified by my image. I looked old, around 85 years, my skin was dull and rough. My palms were bruised, and my nails were chipped. The soles of my feet were so dry and tough that my hairpin could not pierce through. My blonde hair was thin, dry, and lacked luster. My eyes, oh, my eyes, they bore the sadness of a thousand widows. Who will save me from this life? Will a handsome prince ride into this old town and save me from this life? Will he take me in his arms and whisk me away on his horse, marry me, and we live happily ever after? Does my life of sorrow have a happy ending? Will I be happy?

Maybe I was cursed as the women in the market place, and church say about me in my absence. I hear the whispers, as they mock and pity me. I don’t believe I am cursed as cursed people have boils on their skins and sores on their feet. Illnesses without cures that end in sudden death. If indeed I was cursed, then I should be already dead by now. Or does death reject me? I think of how I would be in death, would I be as trapped as I am now? Would I be able to make choices for myself? Would I be happy? I honestly do not know, but I believe that death would be better than the life I live now. There is no solace in this life. There is no happiness, no freedom, no peace, no joy, and no hope.

I dread the sunrise each morning as it signals a new day but an old life. Hearing the roosters crow, birds singing, and country music from my father’s old and battered radio. Then go to the small, yet, noisy town where everyone greets the other with a wide smile. At the end of the day, I return to our dark little house and prepare a meal with my father as we discuss our lives and my mother. As I struggle in my frustrations, my father is oblivious of my pain as he is “delighted by his daughter.” Despite the sad look, which exaggerates the creases on his face, he always makes an effort to comfort me. My father truly believes that we are “happy” as a family. At times I wonder if he thinks of me and my future. Does he think of what will happen to me when he passes? Does he think of how I will survive without him? My father says, “We don’t need anyone child, all we need is each other as people will only destroy us and abandon us when we need them the most, as your mother did.” He goes on to remind me how he has raised me all alone and how hard it was for him. It eventually dawned on me that the town and my father were not the problems; the problem was me for letting my father manipulate and trap me in a cycle of sadness from which I could not escape.