Rick Gentry had entered our lives when I was eight years old. He worked in industrial lighting, owned a collection of expensive sunglasses, and firmly believed that biting sarcasm was a valid form of leadership. He moved his belongings into our small house with the confidence of a man who had decided a family was something he could rearrange to suit his own needs.
He was not violent in the way people usually imagine when they hear stories about terrible stepfathers. He did not throw furniture or come home drunk with a belt in his hand. Instead, he was cruel in a much quieter and more socially acceptable way.
He specialized in making his unkindness sound like common sense. Rick would tell me not to be soft and to stop playing the victim whenever I looked upset. He reminded me constantly that I was just like my father.
That particular line was effective because it carried an entire mythology of failure along with it. If my father was selfish, then my needs were automatically viewed as selfish. If my father was dramatic, then any pain I felt was labeled as a performance.