The Cherry Chocolate Truth
A cherry chocolate deceives,
promising a burst of sweet satisfaction
until the snap of that chocolate shell
reveals the truth:
the cave of uninspired darkness,
the fabricated ooze,
the pitiful, pitted nefarious fruit.
An uncordial cordial,
a liar in a dark suit.
I never notice cherry chocolates except at the holidays, though I suspect they’re around all the time. But my subconscious allows me to ignore them. This year, however, they’ve been on my mind, nagging me that now, of all times, it’s important to remember them and what they represent to me.
I read recently that January 3rd is the cherry chocolate’s national day. I find it ironic that they share the week with January 6th, the anniversary of the insurrection. What’s that to me, you may wonder? Well, read on, because I’m about to tell you.
First, let me say that I hold no ill will toward cherry chocolates or the people that love them. We’re still a democracy after all, and I respect that it’s your inalienable right. So, while I’m not a fan of cherry chocolates, I understand and honor that you might be. As for me? Cherries? Yep. Chocolate? Of course! But together? Eh…? Meh? No. Not if I can help it. In my case, however, it’s not so much the taste, as the history I have with them. The memories they evoke and their truth it’s taken me years to digest.
My dad loved cherry chocolates and when I was very young, that’s what I’d get him for Christmas. I remember feeling so excited when I spied them in December. What pride I felt as I carried that box to the checkout counter and paid for it with my hard-earned allowance! I thought cherry chocolates were the perfect gift because I could afford them at a $1 a box. They were easy for a little kid to wrap. And my dad, the man I thought was the king of the world, loved them!
I loved sneaking them to my bedroom, fitting the box on the wrapping paper, snipping, folding, and taping the edges. Sticking on the bow. And as I wrote out that name tag and tip-toed that box to the living room to hide it under the Christmas tree, I couldn’t wait to see Dad’s smile on Christmas Eve. To bask in the glow of his hard-earned approval.
My dad was a package shaker which I used to think was fun. He’d make a big deal of picking them up one by one, holding them near his ear, and giving each a shake. And every year, I loved hearing the shuffle of those cherry chocolates against their packaging. Until the moment my dad would stop shaking, look at me with what I thought was a pleased smile and say, “Hmm, let me think…. could it be…cherry chocolates?”
Each time, I’d sag a little as I let out the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding, and I’d wonder year after year how he always knew what I was getting him. Until the day I asked him that fatal question and heard the answer I should have known to expect: “Because that’s what you always give me.”
Boy, did I feel dumb. About as dumb as the time my older brother convinced me that cold showers make you smarter and conned me into letting him adjust my pre-shower water temperature. I got smart, all right, with him laughing his you-know-what off outside the bathroom door.
All this time I’d believed I was pleasing my dad, filling his holiday with Christmas cheer as I surprised him with his annual box of cherry chocolates. Oh, he’d eat them all right and appear to enjoy them. But when I finally knew the truth, as he removed another chocolate from the box, bit into it with that snap, and smiled as he chewed, I couldn’t quite believe him. Was he really enjoying them? Or was he laughing at my gullibility, my childish belief that what he’d said to me was true?
I still feel foolish when I I look back now, thinking how I should have known then to be careful, that my dad was not always truthful. But I loved him. He was the man I thought was so strong as I pretended to be asleep when he carried me to bed. He was the king, the man of the house, Superman, the Almighty himself, or so it seemed.
As I grew, I did begin to question, though I knew better than to do it aloud. Like the times my brother and I got in trouble and stood before him as he ranted, demanding that we tell the truth. And when we did, he’d rail, threaten spankings until we said what he wanted us to. Even when we knew it wasn’t true.
But I still didn’t understand that our dad was an authoritarian and I, by birth, was under his control. He was my dad, after all, who could be funny at times, whose cigarette glowed in the dark on Sunday evening car rides and made me feel secure in the back seat. I assumed that the dads in all those houses we passed, with the shadows moving behind their paint-pallet curtains, were the kings of their houses, too. Kings who lied and forced their kids to obey. That it was normal and what all dads did. Only my dad was better than those dads because he was smarter and holier. I knew because that’s he said all the time and believed himself.
As we grew up and our dad sensed he was losing control, it only got worse. Especially when our mom died and he couldn’t do a thing about it. He couldn’t cope with raising two kids alone, either, so he remarried right away so he wouldn’t have to. His narcissism increased and there was always the threat of what might happen if we didn’t obey. My brother rebelled and paid for it the rest of his life. But I toed the line and submitted to my dad’s propaganda, until I got to high school and began to rebel a bit myself.
Like the night I got home by curfew but remained in the car in front of our house with my boyfriend for another hour. Until the light in my room went on and I beat it into the house, quick. My dad was waiting for me and didn’t care that my boyfriend was the organist at our church and as straight-laced as I was. I’d broken the law and was grounded. I’m not sure anymore, but that might have been the time I sassed him, and he gave me a black eye. But I do remember lying about how I got it the next day at school because my dad was the junior high assistant principal and I didn’t want to get him in trouble.
And then there was the time when I was working on a feature story for our school newspaper and I asked my dad’s advice about some wording since he’d once been a journalism teacher. He gave the story back a few minutes later completely revised. When I protested and said it wasn’t my style, he was furious. The only words I recall from the argument afterward was him saying, “You don’t HAVE a style!” and vowing to myself that I’d prove him wrong if it took me the rest of my life.
The light didn’t begin to dawn for me completely until I met Floyd, my husband of almost fifty years. We met on a blind date in college and I was swept away by his dimpled smile and his dare-devil motorcycle stunts. The day I met his parents and went out to eat with them was the first day of the rest of my life.
I remember holding that menu at that restaurant and feeling so nervous. How was I supposed to order when I didn’t know what Floyd’s dad would allow? Because that’s how it was always done with my dad-we only ordered what he’d allow.
So I asked and Floyd’s dear dad gave me the strangest look. Probably wondering if I was joking. Then he said the words that opened the gate. “Order what the hell you want!” And that was it! For the first time ever, I realized that other people’s dads weren’t like mine. That in other families, dads were not kings but honest-to-goodness men who cared about others and were willing to accept the decisions they made for themselves and respected them for it!
I’m tearing up now just thinking about it, how I don’t think I ever told Floyd’s dad how much his words meant to me. How they helped me stay strong later when I was arguing with my dad about how his narcissism and lies were destructive and I couldn’t allow him to be around our kids.
“You lie,” I told him to which he replied, “I tell you the truth to your ability to accept it.” Yep. About your little daughter’s gifts and everything.
Sound familiar? So now you can probably understand why I think of my dad and the 2016 Narcissist-in-Chief every time I see a box of cherry chocolates. If there’s one thing I’m thankful for it’s that living with my dad taught me to spot liar and a con artist a mile away. Through lots of therapy, I’ve finally come to forgive him. But I will never forget.
I haven’t written about this for all to see until now because I’m not usually a rebel and would rather avoid confrontation. But I’ve been reading Liz Cheney’s book Oath and Honor, A Memoir and a Warning and Timothy Snyder’s On Tyranny, Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century. I remember watching the craziness of people attacking our Capitol three years ago and putting our democracy in danger. So, for my grandchildren’s future and the sake of our democracy, I’m speaking my truth.
The whole point is that my dad was a dictator and I followed him blindly for years, believing the verbiage he spewed. But finally, one person’s words helped me break free. If I can do the same for someone now with these words, then writing them has been worth it. And when my grandkids wonder what I’ve done with my life, maybe they’ll see them and know that I at least tried.
Happy New Year, my friends and prayers for strength and courage in the coming year.
Best,
Dale
Thank you for sharing these very painful memories of walking on eggshells, living in fear and always questioning yourself. I appreciate your vulnerability and courage.
Dale, I love this! I love how you wove your personal experience with what happened at the Capitol four years ago. It’s important for people to recognize those in our lives who exert their own agenda on those they try to control. It’s the narcissists who try to con us with their lies to gain power over us until their true colors finally show who they really are.