Call Me Eric
by Monique Erickson
Tall.
Blond.
Blue eyed.
My mother calls you her goy boy from Troy.
When I was little, I worshipped you:
I try to part my hair to the side to mimic
your blond forelock, wearing jeans
I call Man Pants after your daily uniform.
I want to sit next to Ewic.
The toddler cannot yet pronounce R.
The toddler you taught to read at two.
The toddler you taught never to show you boo-boos,
Maybe other people think it’s cute – not me, you said.
At 5, my sister tells you, that’s five mornings
Monique has eaten her cereal with her
left hand: she might be left-handed.
She just wants attention, you say.
Still, I love you. Still, I yearn for you.
9 years old, you ask me to clean
my room. What you perceive
as attitude ends with you shaking me
upside down by my pants ’til I, a string bean,
fall out of them to the floor. You go
from shouting to laughing. I will never master
the emotional whiplash it takes to be your daughter.
That Christmas there is a lavender bike
next to the tree. In Riverside Park
you have me ride small circles around you.
When you take off the training wheels
I am scared. You are angry. We go home.
That is the only time we take the bike out.
I never learn to ride, despite the best efforts
of all my friends’ fathers.
12, you decide I am an asshole, stop speaking to me.
16, working my first summer job,
assistant styling on shoots for ID
and The Face, we pass you on
Seventh Avenue and you walk
right by, cruelty etching deep lines
into your face.
18, Thanksgiving. What does your daughter
want to order? you ask my mother seated
across from me at the Troutbeck Inn. You sit
at the head of the table, directly to my left.
From you I learn that men hold their silence.
The serrated edge of your silence shapes my life.
To this day we have never openly discussed
that you are not my father. When my daughter
calls you Grandpa, you urge her gently
to call you Eric, like you once told me.
Monique Erickson is a poet, performer, writer, and publisher from New York City, whose work grapples with daughterhood, motherhood, and womanhood. Credits include NYT, NYMag, Another, Dazed, Purple, Paper, Reserved, White Hot Mag, Live Mag!, The Trops, and the Kollection. She is the founder of the independent imprint LONESOME PRESS, and the editor of their art and poetry journal LONESOME. Monique writes an accompanying chronicle of culture, poetry, and art at lonesome.substack.com. She is working on her first book. She can be found online @myfairmomo.
