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100 Lessons in Life.

(Summary: we learn more about Gabriel "John" Utterson's father, Hugo Utterson, and what he wants most in life.)

Chapter II: To be a Father

I haven’t exactly caught up, emotionally, with what just happened. To be a father means you must always expect the unexpected, no matter how small or dire the situation is. If you can’t be there and do anything in your power to make everything all right when your child is in need, what good are you as a parent?

Absolutely no good. At least, that’s how I was raised. To be a father means you must make the scary demons not go away, but appear in a different light; you must teach your child how to face their fears as there will be a day you will not be able to help them. That day is judgment day. Have you succeeded as a parent, a provider, a caretaker? Have you raised them properly and given them enough knowledge on the real world to understand how to provide for themselves?

It is a day I am always hopeful for, since my children can’t wait to change the world in their own beautiful ways. They are brilliant, they are witty, they are humble—well, Zara could be a bit more humble, though her pride is what makes her who she is—they are grounded, and they love each other dearly. Even on their worst days (as siblings bicker and fight), I know they could never find it in themselves to ignore one another. I am forever, and always will be, intensely proud of my daughters and son. Nothing can change that.

To be a father means you must accept how much you love your children, and also accept they will never love you as much as you love them. It isn’t because they don’t love you at all, it is because they aren’t your parents. To be a father means you must be ready for the day they leave, even if it will hurt. You must be ready to say goodbye with a brave smile and a strong voice. It is what they want.

I want that day to arrive for my babies, I sincerely do. But if I can’t help Jack, what are the chances he will live to see that day at all? That is a thought that all parents have, losing their angels. If I can’t protect my children, can I do anything for them at all?

This noise nearly prevents me from seeing the girls in the kitchen, cleaning up. I stumble back a bit, blinking confusedly. The nanny was dismissed as soon as I'd arrived, however I didn’t expect to see them clean up after themselves. Did they feel obligated to? I hurry inside and shoo them out into the dining room, which is only a few steps back. “No, no, no! Little girls do not belong in the kitchen. I am happy to clean up once I come home.”

They all give me frowns as a response. I find myself doing the same. “You’re worried about your brother, aren’t you?” Sienna nodded her head.

“Papa, is there any way we can help?”

“Be there by his side when he needs you, and please be patient with him. Your concern is as deep as mine, but you three are still young. Have fun, please. You already know how to cook and clean, yes?”

“Yes, but that isn’t the issue.”

“What is then?”

“You can’t expect us to distract ourselves with fun when we’re too troubled to have fun. You have always told us that distracting yourself from pain is unhealthy, so why do you do it?”

Ah…sometimes I underestimate Sienna, and for no good reason. I should’ve known that she, the fifteen year old who enjoys the company of her father or herself along with a book, sees the world in an entirely different view from someone, say, Jack or Zara's age. I wonder if she’s ever shared such philosophical ideologies with Luna, as she’s the quietest and most timid but I’ve noticed she adores hearing what other people have to say. She is a very good listener, my little Luna. Did she inherit that from her mother?

“Sienna, stop,” begs Luna at that moment. “I’m sure papa has a reasonable explanation for why he does what he does.”

“I agree, but I won’t stand for this hypocrisy.”

“Pressuring someone for answers never works! Drop it, please.”

Stubbornness against kindness. I curse the world for ever allowing the girls to share my pigheadedness. There is a difference between perseverance and…obstinacy. “Girls,” I warn, “that’s enough. Always carry your caring nature wherever you go, Luna. Sienna, you are right. I should not be giving you advice if I am not willing to take it. I'm sorry.”

Sienna’s face softens. “Thank you. I forgive you.”

“Dad,” says Zara, tugging on my sleeve, “where was Gabito anyways?”

“In my office reading my books.”

“Did he make a big mess?”

“Yes, but I’ll clean it up later.”

“Dad?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Is he okay?”

My chest felt sore looking at their faces. I knelt to her height, held her hands, and offered her a smile. “Eventually, yes. Like I said, if you stay by his side and be patient with him, he'll be okay again.”

“Forever?”

“I…No, I’m afraid. There will be days where he will most likely be troubled like this once more. The best we can do is love him as we always have. All right?”

“Okay. I can do that.”

“I know.”

I kissed her forehead, held out my arms, and she practically ran into me. The little fighter is getting strong! Sienna and Luna joined in, but they didn’t seem too joyous. “Challenge any anxious thoughts about it. It’s all right to be scared or worried, or both—it just means you love that person with all your heart. And you three have the biggest hearts for tiny, adorable children. Please, talk to me if you ever need anything. I love you.”

“Thank you, papa,” says Sienna.

“We love you, too,” adds Luna.

“Who you calling adorable?” questions Zara. I chuckle.

“I need to fetch Jack his glass of water. Spend time together.”

They nodded their heads and ran off to play. I grabbed a cup, filled it with water, and returned to Jack's room. I was about to greet him until I realised he was already asleep. I set the glass on his bookshelf that was a few inches shorter than him, and glanced back at him.

To be a father means you must always expect the unexpected.

So then, why wasn’t I expecting this?

I silently leave his room, my head starting to pound. Wonderful. I'll just have a glass of water myself, wait for the girls to sleep, then go to bed as early as possible.

I have a long day of work ahead of me tomorrow anyhow. Not that my feelings matter.

To be a father means you are always willing to make sacrifices.

When I arrived at work, I was greeted with that unpleasant stench of wax in every nook and cranny yet again. I crinkled my nose—I never enjoyed this part. Frankly, I never enjoyed any part of my job. I’m aspiring to be a lawyer at the moment. It'll be far more beneficial for my children and I.

That’s it, Hugo. Focus on them. Think about how much you want to succeed to keep them happy.

The stench dissipated. I entered my office and got to work. As of right now, they call me a chandler. A candlemaker, if you will. Though, I’ve caught myself making soap more and more often. I'm not complaining. So long as I don’t have to deal with the smell of wax all day, I'm fairly satisfied.

About an hour in, a pale man with sand blond hair and deep sea blue eyes entered, and they lit up when they fell on me. “Mr. Utterson, we're needed in the back for a conference.”

What? Now? “All right. I will be there promptly.”

“Very good, sir.”

With that, he left, presumably to attend the conference. I always wonder who that lad is. I don’t believe I ever got his name. Ah, well. Perhaps he’s just another stranger I'll never know.

I leave my office and enter the conference room, taking my usual seat at the very back. Understand this isn’t my usual seat by choice. I would prefer to sit somewhere else, someplace that doesn’t make me feel like I’m being stared down whenever I speak, but I don’t necessarily have a say in the matter.

I suppose I do, but I only have a say in it if I don’t wish to work there any longer.

I’m aspiring to be a lawyer, after all.

“We got a big order in today, gents,” says my boss. “I expect one-thousand candles and one-thousand soaps by the end of the month.”

I can feel the unease in the room. We’ve made more than that in the past, but like any artist with a painting or drawing, these things take time.

“Utterson,” he continues, “you’re on soap duty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I'll be assigning who works with you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The unease rose. Nobody wished to work with me. They all think I’m pretentious, they all think I’m a suck-up.

There’s another reason why they despise me, however, I feel as though that one is rather obvious.

“Owens, you’re on candle duty.”

“You may as well give it to Utterson as well,” says someone that is not Owens. “He wouldn’t fret about getting a splinter stuck in his finger.”

Snickering arose.

“I agree!” says another man who definitely isn’t Owens. “I haven’t caught him making a fuss about his hair when there’s dust about.”

“It may have been all that womanly influence on him growing up. He doesn’t know how to behave.”

As if either of those twits were to talk.

“Sir,” I say, clearing my throat, “if I finish early, may I tend to my daughters and son? My four children, three girls and one,” I glimpse at both those rude men, “white son.”

“They can't tend to themselves? I know one of your girls is about that age.”

“They can, but I enjoy seeing my children get along with one another. It…makes my heart swell with joy.”

“Fine. But just this once, Utterson. It was damnably lucky that you got this job, so I expect those soaps to be the best bars of soap you’ve ever produced.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good.”

He started to assign Owens his helpers, but I didn’t pay much attention. Instead, I was busy fighting against a smirk. The two insulting men were glaring at me. What can I say? You show the boss work above mediocrity and you respect him, you sort of become his favourite.

Truthfully, I wanted the attention off of Owens, whoever he might’ve been. I heavily disagree with the implications that being raised around women makes a man less of a man. Jack learns so many things from his sisters every day, it blows me away how brilliant they all are. Those girls are so kind, so genuine. I sincerely believe their impact on his life will only be a positive one.

“Utterson.”

Ah. My boss has assigned me my partners. Not one of them looked happy.

That’s fine. It’s me who'll be earning that time off anyhow for my work above mediocrity.

Hm. I wonder who Owens is. I wonder what he’s thinking right about now.

I came home to, well—

“Zara! What have I said about stealing my dresses? They’re too big for you!”

“You don’t even wear the ones I steal! Leave me alone!”

“What’s wrong with your own?”

“I said leave me alone, Sienna! I’m helping you out!”

“You are most certainly not you little thief!”

That.

That is what I came home to.

“Gabriel, stop tracking mud in the house! Papa works so hard to keep it clean!” scolds Luna.

“It’s not my doing! How are you so sure it isn’t Zizi?”

“Because if it was Zara, there would be mud on her dress and face!”

“You mean my dress?” butts in Sienna.

“Same difference!”

“That doesn’t even make any sense!”

“It means stay out of arguments that didn’t involve you to begin with!”

“You made it seem like it was Zara's dress when it’s not! It’s my dress!”

“What does it matter?” asks Jack. “It’s just a bloody dress.”

“You’re a boy!” scream the girls.

All right. I’ve seen enough.

I dismiss the nanny with a tired smile, and I felt it vanish the moment I approached them. It’s not that I’m angry or annoyed, I’m merely exhausted. Their sibling fights can be…something. It can be about one thing but then it ends up being something else. It’s almost amazing how they do it. “All right, all right. One at a time, please. What happened?”

They all started talking at the same time.

“My dears,” I cut off, “I said one at a time.”

“Zara stole my dress!”

“Sienna’s a joyless snitch!”

“Gabriel tracked mud in the house!”

“Luna’s a liar!”

“Sienna, please share. You wear roughly three dresses tops, and you are beginning to outgrow them anyhow. That reminds me, we are going shopping tomorrow. Zara, what have I said about stealing you sisters belongings? They are not yours, so you do not take them. And no name calling. Jack, have you been tracking mud in the house?”

“No!”

“Then what’s that on the bottom of your shoe?”

He went quiet. Then, he pouted.

“Don’t give me that face, young man. Luna doesn’t lie and you know this. If you wish to be a lawyer, you need to be better at arguing. Luna?”

“Yes, papa?”

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say to Sienna. In fact, none of you were very kind to each other. We are all terribly angry today. Close your eyes, children.”

They followed my instructions.

“And count back from ten in your heads.

There was silence. Sweet, sweet silence. When they opened their eyes, the anger had vanished from their faces.

“Very good. Now, why don’t we try talking about these things instead of yelling and pointing fingers at each other that ultimately gives me a headache?”

Sienna was the first to start. “I suppose you can borrow my dresses, Zara. But you best not ruin them!”

Her sister grinned. “No promises.”

“You’re awful. Why did you even want it today? You spoke like you were hiding something.”

Come to think of it, Zara does appear to be holding something. She’s slouched over a bit as well. Zara frowned and hesitantly revealed what she was hiding underneath the layers that were far too big for her.

“I found him near the backyard.”

A puppy. It was cold, scared, and hurt. Severely hurt. Does it even have any fur…? This poor thing, my heart shattered at the sight. I can only guess it hasn’t been fed if it was left to die like this.

“Oh no!” exclaimed Luna. “Juju, did you know about this?”

“Yeah. Zizi went to grab something warm while I fetched him out of the mud.”

“That explains the mud tracks.”

“I’m sorry for being dishonest.”

“I’m sorry for not understanding.”

Luna was swift to tug at my sleeve. “Papa, we have to save him! Can we keep him, please-please-please?”

“Luna, dogs are a big responsibility and—”

“Spare me the lecture, he’ll die without our help! You can’t tell me you don’t want to help him. I know you do.”

When looking at that injured puppy, I felt that aching pain again. That insatiable desire to help the baby until it was all better. Luna isn’t normally stubborn, if ever, but she won’t take no for an answer. For good reason, of course.

Even if she could, I don’t think I can bring myself to say no.

“All right. We may keep the dog.”

The children cheered. Even Jack, the cat person. I think he’s just happy to know we’re not allowing an innocent animal to die.

To be a father means to give in to your child’s wants every now and then. Sometimes those big grins of theirs is what makes it all worth it.

“Will you take turns caring for it?” I ask.

“We all will!” replies Luna, her smile still brighter than the sun. “I’m happy to bathe him.”

“I don’t mind walking him,” says Sienna.

“And I can play with him!” says Zara.

“I'll feed him,” volunteers Jack.

All of this pleases Luna. To be a father means you must always stick together as a team for your family. That’s something I learned within this family.

[unstiteo-blog]

100 Lessons in Life.

(Summary: this is a story about a young Gabriel "John" Utterson and his life growing up with his family, along with the struggles he faces while the others try to figure out what troubles him.)

Chapter I: Lesson One

The blinding rays of sunlight washed over my eyes, begging I rise from my bed. It was clear they would not leave me alone until I did. With a quiet groan, I sat up, rub my eyes with my fists, rested my glasses on my face, and left my room for breakfast. I’m not surprised to see my sisters up and helping our father prepare the meals. They are nearly finished. I take my usual seat at the table, sit straight, and yawn. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” says my father. “You're usually up earlier than this.”

“I'm aware. I apologise for my tardiness, father.”

My father said nothing. He served me my food, ruffled my hair, and smiled at me. “No, no, son. You say, ‘thank you for waiting for me.’ It lets people know you are grateful for their patience.”

“Oh.” That actually did sound better than what I said. How did my father come to be so wise? “In that case, thank you for waiting for me.”

“You're very welcome.” He kissed my head, watched my sisters take their seats, and served their plates with that smile of his. “Why are you up so late?”

“I couldn’t sleep. I kept tossing and turning.”

“Was it a nightmare?” immediately asks my eldest sister, Sienna. I refer to her as Rosey, Rosey dear, or Rose, depending on the time of day. Naturally she would ask that sort of question; she has this tendency to take on the responsibilities of an adult but forgets she is a child, that we are all children who would like to spend time with her. “Were you overthinking again?”

“Again?” I ask, almost offended. “When have I overthought anything?”

“Kid's got a point,” speaks up Zara, who is halfway finished with her meal. No doubt because she wolfed it down like she always does. “If anything, he underthinks.”

“That's not even a word,” I reply with a roll of my eyes. “I just haven’t caught myself overthinking, that’s all.”

“Well,” quietly says Luna, who has more maturity than Zara since she was born after Sienna, “just because you haven’t noticed it doesn’t mean we haven’t. You’re not very good at hiding your emotions.”

Emotions? What emotions? I don’t feel anything! This is preposterous. Father sat at the far end of the table and gave me a worried look, which fills me with dread, but said nothing. I suppose it’s because he knows he can get me to crack with one look alone. “Thank you for the food,” I say, deflated. I suppose I have been overthinking, but not about me.

About them.

My family is very…different from me. If you saw us, you would most certainly not think we were related. I’m the only one who is much, much lighter than them to put it to you shortly. As of late, I’ve been hearing children my age speak ill of my sisters and my father. They say such terrible, abhorrent things that I shan’t repeat—I’m better than that. It concerns how I was born, for the most part, but I already know I wasn’t born under the best circumstances. It’s knowing strangers don’t like them because of me.

I feel like a burden.

But I can’t tell them that. Such matters cannot be changed, and such ignorance can only be helped with the help of miracles. Even so, why does it feel like a knife is piercing through my chest when I think of my mother? She left me; she didn’t want me. It hurts, but I find it in my heart to pity her. My father, Rosey, Lulu, and Zizi are the most kind-hearted and loyal people I've ever met. She could’ve had something nice but avoided it because of me.

I did that.

“Jack. Jack,” eventually cuts in my father. I notice Sienna has been shaking me—how long has she been doing that? “Are you there?”

“What? Huh?” Oh…perhaps not the best response I could’ve given at a time like this. My father frowns.

“You’re doing it again.”

“Oh, forgive me,” I pick at my food and start to eat. I can’t help but notice the others have lost their appetite. “I mean, thank you for assisting in my recovery. Who was speaking?”

“I was talking about how you have this tendency to dodge anything that concerns you,” says Luna. “You always put others before yourself.”

“That doesn’t sound like me at all. I’m a very selfish person, Lulu.”

“There you go again, dodging my point. You are not, and you know you're not. You're a hermit at best.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You should listen to your sister, Jack,” interrupts my father, his voice soft and soothing. I don’t want to admit it, but it does help me relax a little. “She’s always been very talented at reading people, especially her younger brother.”

Drat. That she has. I would look like a fool to turn her away.

“Very well,” I sigh, picking at my food again. “Only because I am outmatched.”

“John-John,” says Sienna, whose arms are now draped over my shoulders, “never forget that the worst thing you can do to yourself in a time of need is to stay silent on the matter.”

“Closed mouths do not get fed,” advises Luna.

“Reaching out doesn’t make you weak,” says Zara. Our father reaches over to hold my hand. He squeezes it firmly.

“We love you, my boy. Do not forget that.”

My hands were ice cold. Sienna pecked my forehead, Luna clung to my arm, and Zara approaches me only to lightly punch me in my [unoccupied] arm. It made me grin.

After that, we continued eating breakfast together, talking and laughing as if none of that happened. Something is wrong with me, we’ve noticed, but I don’t let it prevent me from enjoying my days with my loved ones. Furthermore, I have much studying to do if I wish to become a lawyer someday. I can’t allow the past to consume my thoughts.

The day continued on as normal. Father went to work, our nanny looked out after us, I stayed in father's office to read his books on law. It was obvious he wanted to be a lawyer more than anything, but his job was what kept a roof over our heads, food in our stomachs, and provided us with clothing. He was afraid to quit if it meant sacrificing what kept our needs in check. If he quit now and failed to become a lawyer, what happens to us?

I suppose I'd always felt responsible to become a lawyer if we plummet into an unfortunate ending. Much to my surprise, it appears being a lawyer is rather interesting. There is much arguing involved, and you can imagine that's a hobby of mine with three sisters.

I don’t exactly know when I took a break from studying, but I do know I decided to take a break and read one of father's books for fun, but it must’ve taken up the entire day since—

Knock, knock, knock.

Speak of the devil.

There he stood in the doorway, a faint smile on his face. “The girls told me they hadn’t seen you all day. I figured you’d be in here.”

“Am I truly that predictable?”

“A bit, yes. But I’m grateful to know you’re safe.”

“Where else would I turn?”

He didn’t reply. He sat next to me, glanced at the sea of scattered books on the floorboards, then he turned to look at me. “Jack, may we talk about earlier today?”

Blasted. “What…what happened earlier today?”

Father frowned. “Jack…”

“You just got back from work. I don’t wish to bother you.”

“You could never. I love you and the moments we spend together. Knowing you are suffering bothers me more than anything.”

“It happens all the time, you know that.”

“Yes, I do. And I get more concerned the more it occurs. What have I always told you?”

I paused for a moment. “Never eat before retiring to bed?”

Father laughed. “Good guess, but no.”

“Pet all the dogs you meet on the street?”

“You’re more of a cat person, aren’t you?”

“Get enough sleep?”

“Have you been getting enough sleep? You did mention you were tossing and turning the night before.”

I shift uneasily. There’s a question I didn’t want to answer. I look at my hands, avoiding eye contact, and shake my head. “My head is too loud sometimes. The thoughts I have, whether I’m alone or with family, blind me from reality. It’s like someone plunged me underwater and they’re trying to talk to me—I can’t hear them properly.”

There’s silence for a moment. Oh God, what did I do? This was my fault. I never should’ve opened up. Now he thinks I’ve gone mad. He’s going to call me looney for feeling like this, I know it.

I feel father’s arms pull me in for a hug. Instinctively, I hide away in his chest, safe from this cruel world. What’s this? He isn’t angry with me? “Jack,” says he, “you should’ve told me sooner. I’m not scolding you for bottling such feelings up, but I know that it must be even more frightening thinking you’re enduring this alone—you feel like you’re insane.”

Aren’t I?

“But you’re not insane,” he continues. “You're simply hurting, and everybody hurts once in a while. We all hurt in different ways. Please, Jack, tell us when you need us. We will always be right there to help you.”

I think tears started to leak from my eyes, but I had them screwed too tightly to tell. Father rubbed my back and hushed me, not seeming too alarmed by my state. “That’s all right, Jack. Let everything out. It’s okay to cry if you’re feeling upset.”

At that, I cried harder. I didn’t mean to! It was comforting to know he didn’t dare let go. Eventually, my crying session came to an end, and I pulled away from father to wipe my eyes. “Hey,” says he, “how are you feeling?”

“To tell you the full truth, I'm tired. But I do feel better.”

“Let’s get you to bed then.”

He picked me up—despite my resistance—and carried me to bed. He pulled the blanket over me, pressed a goodnight kiss to my forehead, and smiled at me. “Do you need anything?”

I think for a moment. “A little glass of water, please.”

“Of course. Water is a necessity, drink plenty of water.”

As soon as he left, however, I dozed off. I was utterly exhausted.

[unstiteo-blog]

Let us march on ballot boxes, march on ballot boxes until race-baiters disappear from the political arena.

Let us march on ballot boxes until the salient misdeeds of bloodthirsty mobs will be transformed into the calculated good deeds of orderly citizens.

Let us march on ballot boxes until the Wallaces of our nation tremble away in silence.

Let us march on ballot boxes until we send to our city councils state legislatures, and the United States Congress, men who will not fear to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with thy God.

Let us march on ballot boxes until brotherhood becomes more than a meaningless word in an opening prayer, but the order of the day on every legislative agenda.

Let us march on ballot boxes until all over Alabama God’s children will be able to walk the earth in decency and honor.

These words come from the speech delivered by Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. at the conclusion of the 1965 march to Montgomery, Alabama. The march brought national attention to the issue of racial discrimination in voting. The Voting Rights Act, a landmark piece of Civil Rights legislation, became law just five months later. 

Photographs, broadsides, and other materials related to Dr. King’s legacy are now on view in the Patricia D. Klingenstein Library reading room.

Bob Adelman. Martin Luther King Jr. marching from Selma to Montgomery, Alabama alongside Ralph Abernathy, James Forman, Jesse Douglas, and John Lewis. March 1965. New-York Historical Society.

Stephen Somerstein. Martin Luther King, Jr. seen from rear, speaking to crowd of 25,000 in Montgomery, Alabama. March 1965. New-York Historical Society.