I learned from him that adults are confused about everything—they just don’t like to show it because they’re embarrassed.

BY LEA ARMATA

IMAGE BY WILHELM GUNKEL

I am standing in the middle of my unfinished kitchen, looking at my dad. He’s painting one side of the wall white, and I watch his strong hand guide the brush up and down, up and down. The brush makes this soothing sound when it drags along the wall. It reminds me of the sound a hairbrush makes when it combs through my scalp. 

It is 2008. I am six and my dad is thirty-eight. He looks at me for a moment, this goofy grin on his lips. I’m watching the brush in his hand guide against the wall so intensely that I almost don’t notice him looking at me. He brings the brush back up and draws my name in white against the wall. He is the only person to ever paint for me.  

“What’re you doing that for?” I ask, stepping closer to my dad and my eyes focusing on the wet paint dry against the wall. “The wall’s already white.” 

My dad stops painting for a moment, turning his body towards me. He’s on his knees, trying to get to all the nooks and crannies of this old house, but he’s stopped his motions to get a good look at me. He’s the only adult that likes to have fun. He’s always willing to indulge me, even when he shouldn't. He’s the only adult that seems to actually like spending time with kids. He’s always saying he loves being a dad more than anything, and I know he’s the only dad that means it. My dad was the first adult to tell me I should be a writer. I don’t even start to write because I want to, but rather because my dad believes I can. My mom is a pragmatic parent and the one I go to for advice, while my dad dresses up as Santa for Christmas.  

My dad is the man who would wrap me in a towel after I got out of the pool, squeezing me tight until my teeth stopped chattering. He is the man who volunteers to be the chaperone on every school trip I go to. He is the man who brings extra snacks just in case one of my classmates gets hungry. He is the man who does my art projects for me since I find them boring. He is the man who would sing the loudest on my birthdays. He is all these men all at once kneeling in front of me. 

“Well,” my dad begins, “I'm painting it over because it’s not bright enough.” 

I walk as close as I possibly can to the wall, trying to inspect it with the naked eye. My eyes flicker between the old white colour and the new one my dad has painted. “They look the same to me.”  

I hear my dad chuckle beside me. “They'll look different when you're older.”  

I don’t understand any of it. I don't understand why my dad paints the wall of our kitchen the same colour. I don’t understand why we fix up houses just to sell them. I don’t understand why my parents are always tired when they come home, or why we eat standing up in the kitchen my parents are renovating. In school, my teacher tells us we can learn new things every day, but I always feel like I get more confused as I get older. 

There's a moment of silence between us and I can feel my dad's eyes on me. He hasn't started painting the wall again. He knows I have more to say. 

“I don’t understand.” I’m not afraid to confess this to him because I know he won’t judge me. 

My dad sets down the brush, his big hand coming up to pinch my cheek. “Sometimes, bella, adults do these weird things that don’t make much sense.”  

“Do adults do things that confuse you?” 

My dad grins. “All the time.” 

I lean forward. I want to know about all the things adults do that annoy my dad. For a moment, I forget he’t an adult too. “Like what?” 

“A lot of adults are scared to dance.” My dad begins humming to himself.  

I laugh. My dad doesn't have that affliction. He loves to dance, even if it’t embarrassing. “What about you?” 

My dad raises his brows. “What about me?” He almost seems offended at the suggestion that he does anything weird or confusing at all. 

“You wear shorts in the winter!” I remark, peering down and coming face-to-face with said shorts. It’s winter around this time, but my dad will wear shorts through any season. Kids at school make fun of me when he drops me off at school in shorts and I’ve grown to think it’s weird too. 

“I don’t feel anything below the knee.” My dad defends himself, a grin on his lips. We both giggle at each other but for different reasons; my dad because he has to defend himself to a six-year-old and me because I’ve heard this excuse multiple times.   

What my dad doesn’t know is that I’ve taken a piece of unspoken wisdom from him that has been seared into my memory as an adult. I learned from him that adults are confused about everything—they just don’t like to show it because they’re embarrassed. That’s why it’s so hard for adults to say they’ve made a mistake. But the truth my dad taught me was there’s no harm in getting confused. It means you’re willing to try to understand. And that’s all he ever asked of me. That I always try to understand. 

My dad resumes his work, painting the wall in long brush strokes up and down and up and down. This is my earliest memory and it’s of the day I watched paint dry with my dad. 

Lea Armata (she/her) was born and raised in Toronto. She is completing her studies in Justice at the University of Guelph-Humber. She is currently working on a collection of untitled non-fiction creative writing stories. 

Image: Untitled (Wilhelm Gunkel, 2020)

Edited for publication by Rochelle Becker, as part of the Bachelor of Creative and Professional Writing Program.

HLR Spotlight is a collaboration between the Faculty of Media & Creative Arts and the Faculty of Liberal Arts & Sciences and Innovative Learning at Humber College in Toronto, Ontario. This project is funded by Humber’s Office of Research & Innovation.