Rodney Curtis

It’s 4:07 a.m. and my daughter is a limp dishrag.

Still, she’s using a phrase like, “I’m trying to figure out the opportunity costs of not turning something in.” She may not have said that exactly, but it was very close. I don’t have a recording of our conversation.

While I stumble back to bed, she refuses something to drink or a bite to eat. Not enough time. She’s been answering questions, texting and sending out emails all dealing with our mayor here in Troy.

Maybe you live somewhere under a rock and haven’t heard what’s been going on. Personally, I’d like to join you there. Do you have wifi? The rest of you will understand. Our city’s mayor just seems to keep on offending people.

This time Skye heard her say something incredibly offensive. The mayor claims it was something a bit less offensive. Semantics. The last time I saw her, she was literally hiding from a television news camera and sneaking out of City Hall. The mayor, not Skye.

The last time I saw my daughter, she was slumped over from tiredness and needed a supportive hug but no food or drink. What a vastly different picture. Her grades will suffer. So will her health. How can I sleep now while she’s upstairs plugging away?

I am reminded of a story from when my lovely daughter was a little girl. On a playground in North Midland, some older boys were saying naughty things about a random girl that Skye had just met. That made her mad. She marched over to the boys hiding behind some trees and told them she didn’t appreciate their comments.

Those boys were bigger and stronger, but they stopped and listened.

This story from the distant past — when my girl couldn’t have been more than four or five — comes rushing at me as the perfect analogy. I’m sorry; I don’t mean to put too fine a point on it. The boys stopped and listened. My daughter has always been this way.

It’s not because she has family members and good friends who are gay. It’s not because she is working for a group of grown ups who put her up to this (as the mayor claims). It’s not because she wants any “fame” from this (name a college that actually wants a rabble rouser on their campus). It’s because somehow, somewhere her mom, her sister and I instilled an anger in her for what’s wrong in the world.

I apologize to her for that. Openly and honestly.

If she could have just let a comment slide, the way she’s let several others go, her math test later this morning may not kick her butt. Maybe she could sleep another hour or two instead of looking at me like I’m Voldemort when I suggest it.

But she couldn’t let something go. I’m to blame too. I mentioned it on facebook as well and the maelstrom began. Look at me, maelstrom, I’m using words like my daughter.

I’m leaving this note up on my computer screen, thinking she may glance at it between now and school. But I hope to sneak back upstairs and find her catching a few winks. And then, just for a moment, I’ll be reminded of the little girl who showed up nearly 18 years ago after a tumultuous birth. She stayed in the hospital for a few weeks afterward battling E. coli in her blood.

I guess she’s always been a fighter.

Hours later, while fixing eggs for breakfast, I feel a huge hug from behind. Tears rain down on my back as I’m told, “I’m happy you support me so much. And it makes me feel better that you don’t mind that I fail my math test.”

Sarcastic sigh, for right now, she’s my teen daughter again.