Finissez
Military school was abysmal. My time spent there was a prison sentence that I reluctantly filled out. You are a Dugrey. My father's voice is a constant reminder of my childhood, my petty, unwanted childhood. You will succeed. I had no choice. All I wanted was to get out of that stupid world of cotillions and debutante balls filled with stupid rules that no one abided—no one was expected to abide, except me. Because I was a Dugrey and Dugreys succeeded.
Dugreys are obedient. Obedience to my father, obedience to Headmaster Charleston, obedience to the rules, to society in general was expected of me. The only problem was that I was not obedient. That was one of the reasons I was sentenced to the esteemed Charles de Gaulle Military Academy in South Dakota.
Dugreys respect their elders. When my father first added that to his ever-growing list of commandments, I was miffed. No, I was slightly confused. If anything, Dugreys were never miffed. I assumed that respecting my elders would tie into the obedience spiel. But when I brought that up to my father, I realized that doing so was in violation of both rules and quickly snapped my mouth shut—fully ready for and not surprised at all by the admonishment that followed.
Dugreys are intelligent. I was intelligent, you had to be to be accepted into Chilton—believe it or not acceptance wasn't based only on money—and though Louise and Madelyn each put up the appearance of dumb, pretty girls, they had to use something to think up those elaborate plans to catch my fellow Chilton men, though not restricted to only Chilton men. What my father referred to as unintelligence was my last year at Chilton. I became involved with less than respectable matters that I admit now were not intelligent. But those were my decisions, not my persona.
Dugreys succeed. That last rule was added after I had graduated from Charles de Gaulle. My father had clapped me on the back proudly, beaming ear from ear. See? He whispered in my ear. I knew you would make me proud—I knew you were a Dugrey all along.
But now as I stand behind the counter of a grubby New Haven gas station, I realize that I am not a Dugrey. I am not obedient, as the night manager reminds me every night when I begin my graveyard shift. I do not respect my elders—especially not my father, the very father that threw me out on the streets when I needed help the most. I doubt that anyone would consider me intelligent anymore. Not my landlord who has taken on a habit of pounding on my door at nine in the morning, after I had just crawled back into bed from the end of my work day, demanding money that he knew I didn't have. I most definitely did not succeed, as I chuckle to myself every morning when I think back on my father and his rules. My father and his ten commandments of sorts.
I am no longer a Dugrey. I'm nameless, I suppose. A nobody.
1/9/08
