I was fourteen when I became Jamie Coleman Philips. I was born Philip Jamivic, son of Jelena and Alexei Jamivic, Serbian immigrants who moved to Hamilton during the early 1990’s. By the time I was seven, my mother had kicked me and my dad out of the house, and, unofficially, out of Hamilton. We found a nice apartment just west of Forest Hill, and I lived there until I turned 18.
The day Jamie was born, I had my friend Winston at the apartment. Grade 8 was almost over. Instead of playing video games and the like, we decided to write something together. I can’t even remember what it was now. But from the end of the school day until around 6pm, all we did was work on this story. By the time we had finished it, we looked like harassed journalists at the end of a long day, but damn were we ever proud of it.
“Hey, Phil.” Winston said, looking over at me. “Let’s show this to your dad! I bet he’d get a kick out of it.”
I did my best to explain to Winston that my father found fiction frivolous. It was his philosophy that “made up fluff” was a total waste of time. In his eyes, maths, sciences and cold hard facts alone would prevail. However, Winston wouldn’t give up, and I finally agreed to show it to my dad.
We found him in the kitchen, typing something on his laptop.
“Tata?” I asked tentatively. “Winston and I want to show you something.”
He looked up, slightly impatient and annoyed. “Da?”
Winston smirked and pushed the story in front of my father. While Winston stood tall and proud, I shrank back. I was well versed in what was coming.
My father read through the story, his expression slipping from boredom, to shock, and finally, anger. At last Winston got the message too, and stepped back a little.
“What,” my father seethed. “Is the meaning of this?”
“I-it’s just a story, Mr. Jamivic,” Winston said hoarsely, staring at his shoes. “Your son Phil’s a great writer, sir. I just helped flesh things out a little.”
“Is that so?” my father murmured, looking daggers at the two of us. “Philip, I expect this from silly children and flaky daydreamers, but not from you.” His voice was quiet and icy now. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Winston wave goodbye and leave the apartment. Thanks for the support, man, I thought.
Once Winston had closed the door behind him, my father really started shouting, using a mixture of Serbian and English.
“What did you expect me to say about this, Philip Jamivic?” he roared. “Did you expect me to applaud your asinine foray into the foolish?”
“No, sir. I did not.” My voice came out in a timid squeak.
“Did you think I would tell you your future lay in writing ludicrous fables and spinning yarns like an old woman?”
All I could do was shake my head. Tears of shame and anger threatened to spill over and I fought to control them.
“How long have you been writing trash like this, boy?” he spat. He was red in the face, his hands pounding the counter for emphasis. “I want the truth.”
I was shaking uncontrollably now. I’d endured my father’s verbal abuses before, but not like this. Never like this.
“A couple of years, sir,” I gulped.
My father looked like I had slapped him in the face.
“What have I always told you? This,” he bellowed, shaking the story in my face. “Is tripe, you hear? And I never want to see any son of mine writing this sort of fluff again!”
His words hadn’t just dismissed my hard work; they had also made me feel like an unruly child. But I bit the inside of my mouth to keep silent.
I would not cry. I would not cry. I wouldn’t let him see me cry.
My father was momentarily silent. After a few seconds, he pointed a finger at the closet in the vestibule.
“You know your punishment. I’ll tell you when you can come out again.”
I walked towards the closet with a sense of dread. Ever since we had lived in this apartment, this had been my version of time-outs and groundings. I don’t know where my father got this idea, but it worked. By the time I had committed this “offense”, I already had serious claustrophobia and was petrified of the dark. But there was nothing I could do to avoid it, so, with my father’s eyes following my every move, I trudged toward my familiar prison and shut the door.
Within seconds, the sheer darkness and cloying heat had taken hold of me. I slid down the wall into a sitting position in order to get a hold of myself, tucking my glasses into my shirt. I wouldn’t be needing them for several hours.
Once I got over my initial terror, I used my time to think. I thought about characters and stories they could appear in. Now that my father knew about everything, I could break the restraints around my imagination. It didn’t make my punishment any less grueling, but it took my mind off my predicament for a while, at least.
After having sat in the closet for over an hour, I decided I needed to not be me when I wrote stories. I couldn’t legally change my name—yet, but I could certainly get other people to think of me as this new person. Plus, it would mean my father wouldn’t know of my writing endeavors. It was on the cowardly side of things, but rebelling against him would be, at most, useless.
Right now I had more pressing things to think about though. Who the hell was I going to become? He’d have to embody more than my creative, writer’s side. I realized that this alter-ego of sorts was the perfect “being” to channel the parts of me my father hated into. I’d have to lose the blatantly Serbian name in favour of something more modern and regular. I stifled a laugh, because I realized I could come up with a great new pseudonym made up from parts of my old name. After puzzling over things some more, I decided that I would be Jamie Philips, and added “Coleman” between the two names to make it stand out more.
Soon after completing my new self, my father opened the closet door. I stepped out, blinking in the sudden light.
Time passed. I endured a long, hot, Toronto summer alone in my room. My father and I were on poor terms from that day forward. Winston had evidently told everyone else at our middle school about the episode my father had had, because for the rest of the year I was avoided like the plague. I thanked my foresight for picking Harbord Collegiate for high school, as I knew no one there.
Incidentally, I never brought a friend home again. It didn’t bother me too much though. I mean, I was Jamie Coleman Philips now. Who did I need?
* * * * * *
I put my pen down and reread the story I had just written. Those reporters outside my Hollywood hotel suite would certainly enjoy this Cinderella story.
Gender:
Points: 952
Reviews: 7