The first time I tried to write a book, I was 12. I’m not sure which one of my parents took the page with the first painstakingly hand written paragraph on it, but I searched all the trashcans and it was gone. I didn’t try to write fiction again till I was away at boarding school. That notebook is tucked away somewhere in a storage closet. That time, I didn’t make the mistake of telling anyone about it.
It’s hard to be unbiased, because he’s dead now, but I’m pretty sure it was my dad.
While this is just a sampling of the memories I’ve had to confront since he died two weeks ago it isn’t the worst thing I have accused him of and he certainly did things that were far worse.
Now I’m not writing this so anyone will feel sympathy, but it felt strange to step away from my blog and social media then come back as if nothing had happened, and it feels like the right time to talk about the way my upbringing helped shape the stories I decide to tell.
What started out as a hobby rooted in escapism morphed into a form of self expression and a means of calling out the real life villains who’s behavior is only restrained by the idea of a omnipresent being in the ether who will, one day, hold them to account.
These are the kinds of people I grew up around and as a child, it was disconcerting to recognize the restrictive beliefs that held me hostage were the only thing keeping those humans from morphing into monsters. I began deconstructing as soon as I was out of the house, maybe even before that, when I begged the God I grew up believing in to show me what I should do. The ether didn’t answer and the monsters in skin suits still walk free, protected by the people in the brick and mortar buildings who kept their secrets because an ounce of forgiveness is more important than accountability.
While I’m not dancing on my fathers grave, the time I’ve taken away has been for me to process the memories and remember the reasons I picked up the pen all those years ago. The words on the page are more than stories to me. They are freedom and accountability, they are justice and truth. While the stories are works of fiction, they are inspired by the real life villains I have come to know because in the walls of the religious institutions I grew up in, their shame was washed away by the blood of Christ and their sins became their testimony.
I write for the child whose first story was stolen and thrown away, for the young woman who learned about the wider world through fiction, and for the author I am now who would have made all the versions of myself so very proud.
For those who understand, welcome to the shittiest club ever. To those who feel like they should leave condolences, please don’t, not for him. Instead send love to the little girl who grew up in very small spaces, who was forced to shrink, who didn’t think she would ever grow up, but always dreamed of being free.
Chandra Arthur 
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