The Orphan Master's Son

by Adam Johnson

But my father was still walking me down that path. My father said to me, “I denounce this boy for having a blue tongue.” We laughed. I pointed at my father. “This citizen eats mustard.” I had recently tried mustard root for the first time, and the look on my face made my parents laugh. Everything mustard was now funny to me. My father addressed an invisible authority in the air. “This boy has counterrevolutionary thoughts about mustard. He should be sent to a mustard-seed farm to correct his mustardy thinking.” “This dad eats pickle ice with mustard poop,” I said. “That was a good one. Now take my hand,” he told me. I put my small hand in his, and then his mouth became sharp with hate. He shouted, “I denounce this citizen as an imperialist puppet who should be remanded to stand trial for crimes against the state.” His face was red, venomous. “I have witnessed him spew capitalist diatribes in an effort to poison our minds with his traitorous filth.” The old men turned from their game to observe us. I was terrified, on the verge of crying. My father said, “See, my mouth said that, but my hand, my hand was holding yours. If your mother ever must say something like that to me, in order to protect the two of you, know that inside, she and I are holding hands. And if someday you must say something like that to me, I will know it’s not really you. That’s inside. Inside is where the son and the father will always be holding hands.” He reached out and ruffled my hair.