Danielle Henderson - The Ugly Cry: How I Became a Person (Despite My Grandmothers Horrible Advice)

Feminist Ryan Gosling

Ive never seen my grandmother bake a cookie, wear a shawl, give good advice, or hug a child unprompted. I have, however, heard her curse so intensely I swear she was making some of them up on the spot, watched her obsess over horror movies with an academic intensity, and listened to her frequent lectures about the reasons every woman should not only carry a knife at all times but also fully be prepared to use it: A man wants to put his hands on you? Carry a little secret knife. Cut his throat. Ask questions later. Her favorite TV show is The Walking Dead; she likes to confidently conjure up strategies to survive the zombie apocalypse from her wheelchair, all of them involving rigged-up weaponry and fire. She knows she would triumph; after a lifelong cultural diet of Creature from the Black Lagoon, Creepshow, Hostel, and Saw, she has no problem thinking up ways to kill anything that moves.

And I was raised by her.

It wasnt planned that way. I had a mom once, and, along with my brother, we had a life together. When she left us at my grandparents house for a weekend, none of us knew that she wouldnt be coming back. I certainly didnt know that I would spend the rest of my childhood with people who had already retired and thought their child-rearing days were over in the 1970s.

In the whiplash of trauma and figuring out how to adjust to this new life, dropped into the care of a foul-mouthed retiree, I realized it was up to me to figure out how to survive.

So I would take respite in the bathroom, the only sun-filled room in the house, where I could read in relative peace.

Every single person in my family yelled at me when they saw me carrying a book into the bathroom, which I did constantly. No matter what my business was in there, I usually sat on the toilet reading until my legs went numb. I shared a bedroom with Grandma, a twin bed under each window. It wasnt exactly my own space; she had already made me take down my Led Zeppelin poster, not wanting to look at those sweaty white boys on the few days a week she crawled up the steps instead of falling asleep on the couch. The bathroom was the only true privacy I had in the entire house.

Dani, noother people have to use the bathroom, you know, Grandma said, her lips pulling into a terse line as I walked through the living room.

So then knock, I said, annoyed.

Are you giving me lip, child? The library is right down the road! If youre in there for more than ten minutes, I will knock down that fucking door, little girl! Grandma called after me.

When I wasnt letting my legs atrophy on the can while I finished chapter after chapter, I pulled back the shower curtain and climbed into the old bright blue clawfoot tub, using any towel hanging up behind the door as a pillow. I fell asleep in there once and woke up to Grandma standing over me. All of the skeleton key locks had long been painted over in this old house; none of the doors locked. It was easy to burst into any room if, like Grandma, you didnt value basic human privacy as a rule.

Oh no, uh-uh, you are not allowed to sleep in the tub and hold this goddamn bathroom hostage when you have a perfectly good bed upstairs. She was pulling down her polyester, elastic-waist pants before I could even fully get the sleep out of my eyes, and farted loudly as she sat down on the toilet.

Ew, Grandma! I yelled, scrambling to stretch my long leg over the side and get out of the tub.

Shouldve thought about that before you stayed in here for two hours, she said, gently unfurling some toilet paper. You can sleep anywhere, but this is the only place I can shit.