Ginger Tea

Back then, I told myself that ginger tea was disgusting. Now I tell myself that it’s not so bad, especially made the way I like it.

My reasons for hating ginger tea were not unfounded. From late elementary school to my sophomore year of high school, my sisters and I were handed a shot of ginger tea each morning before the bus came. Completely homemade, spicy, and unsweetened, it was the last obstacle of a morning spent adeptly navigating our father’s barely-contained rage. The first obstacle was getting out of bed before he returned to wake us up with a belt. The second was making sure we kissed him good morning, lest we be held in contempt and have to be “taught” some “respect.”

I hated school mornings, I hated kissing him good morning, and I hated ginger tea. Looking back, I hated a lot of things when I was younger, before I could separate the tangible object or action from the fear that often accompanied it.

Papa often justified his violent behavior to us, but I think he really spoke the words aloud for himself. Here’s a rundown of the classics:

(1) I do this because I love you.

(2) This is my job as your father.

(3) Don’t call me Dad. God is your dad. I am your mentor. Listen while I teach you how to live.

All three were commonly heard on those ginger-shot mornings. It was almost comical when he would declare his love for us; picture three young girls, side by side in Catholic school uniforms, cowering in fear before an invincible figure. His feet stood planted a shoulder’s-width apart, his knees were locked, his arms were crossed over his chest, and a faded leather belt hung from his hand, still warm from its last kiss on my back.

Hating my father at such a young age would break me, so I hated things. It was a life- saving combination of resiliency and innocence. As I got older and learned to sever my perception of objects from my constant state of fear, I began to hate life, or at least the absurdity of it. I only found relief in my diaries, writing poetry and stories and drafting unseen suicide notes to each of my family members.

Now, I don’t hate as much. I haven’t got the room for it. So I try things that I hated before; things with which I was forced to engage. I take pride in my academics for myself, I play my guitar for myself, and sometimes, when I’m feeling a bit under the weather, I make a cup of ginger tea for myself. And I don’t make it from scratch and I put in a buttload of honey and I never let my father know what’s in my cup.

But I drink it.