Seniye Groff
My father’s screaming abruptly wakes me up and when I open my eyes all I see is black; it’s still dark outside. “Get up! It’s time to go to the office.”
I rub my eyes with the hope of buying a little more time before I have to get out of bed. But no, my father screams again through my screen window. “Move it. We need to go and we need to visit the hospital first.”
Why can’t I just spend the day playing outside like every other kid? I roll out of the lumpy twin bed. My younger sister is still asleep across the musty room. She sleeps like a rock and even the whistling winds of a hurricane can’t wake her up. The birds sing in unison and a green lizard climbs the wall. How do those funny looking guys get through the screens? I move slowly to the bathroom, brush my teeth and struggle to get my hard contacts in my very dry eyes. The salty sea air smells wonderful but is rather drying on my pre-teen skin. I slip on clean-enough khaki shorts and a wrinkled t-shirt, unlock the door to my cottage and walk along the uneven stone path to the main house.
In the main house my mother has already made fresh bread. The buttery, yeasty smell fills the kitchen like fog on a cold, winter day. My tart, plain homemade yogurt with honey swirls waits for me at the kitchen table.
We drive in silence as the sun begins its orange, pink rise in the distant sky. My father isn’t much for small talk. I’m relieved since I will only learn what I am doing wrong or how disappointing I really am. As we enter the busy, noisy hospital, many nurses and fellow doctors greet my father. My father smiles, questions how they are doing and asks about the health of their children. An esteemed, educated doctor who is a tyrant in his private life but skilled at his double personality without obvious detection. He puffs up his small chest and announces to everyone he meets. “This is my daughter. She is twelve. She assists me in my office.” Before entering the hospital, I could do nothing right, but in front of others, he shows me off like I am a lucky lottery ticket winning.
Five minutes from the hospital is my father’s pediatric office, a nondescript single-story building with multiple tenants. The spiral-bound appointment book is full; it’s going to be a nonstop day and includes two circumcisions. I sit at the cluttered metal desk and greet parents as they enter the sparse, cavernous waiting room with their children. The mothers are harried and the stress of wild, sick kids surrounds them like a halo. My father tells me that the majority of parents will be in a bad mood because their kids are grumpy with fevers, bruises and coughs. Some kids cry as soon as they enter the office, remembering the vaccination shot from the previous visit.
At 10:30 my father screams, “Seniye get in here and don’t forget to wash your hands!”
I hate helping with circumcisions; penises are ugly and I detest seeing those cute innocent babies with such soft skin in so much pain. I wash my hands in the hot water and head to the small examining room. The little, blonde baby is on the crinkly papered table wriggling and whimpering, as if he already knows his future will be full of pain. My father smiles at the baby and whispers, “Tsk, tsk, tsk,” and the baby looks directly at him. He places a sterile disposable towel with a hole in the center over the baby’s penis and then swipes the tip with some orange Betadine.
My father tells the baby’s mom, “Hold down his legs and don’t let him move”.
The trembling mother struggles to be firm with her baby as the sweat on her upper lip gathers. I hold the baby’s fragile arms across his small chest with my right arm and use my left hand to give my father the imposing shiny scalpel. Blood spews and the baby begins a piercing scream as my father moves the scalpel through the delicate, pink skin. I then hand my father some gauze and the antibacterial ointment. My father smiles as if the baby’s pain indicates he has done a good job. Should a devil really hold a scalpel? Thank god it is over quickly and my father instructs the mom how important it is to keep the cut tip clean. My father ends the appointment with some silly, baby-appropriate cooing and smiles at the baby. I follow the shaking, teary-eyed mom out to the desk to let her know how much she owes and collect a check.
I have just witnessed and participated in one of the most barbaric customs I could imagine (other than the continuous torture my father inflicts on me). My brother was circumcised at eleven years old. His evident pain for days after the procedure and cries all the way home in the car scar me. My parents are silent; they expect my brother to gracefully accept this transition into manhood and adhere to the Muslim religion’s need for cleanliness. I have finally found one benefit to being a girl. And yet, here I repeatedly participate in this repulsive act on innocent babies with my father.
A continuous stream in and out of parents and their sick, snotty, irritable children paints the rest of the day. But even with the crankiness, parents interact with their kids with love, gentleness and concern. Love and concern missing from my own lonely existence. I grapple every day with being unloved, even hated. I am reminded daily that I am a burden. My father instructs parents, laughs with the kids and tells the proud moms how beautiful each and every baby is. I assist with immunizations, another circumcision and weigh babies on the scale. And of course, I collect check after check and cash, too.
The waiting room is empty as I walk the last patient to the clear, glass door, say good-bye and twist the lock to the right. My father asks for all the money and we head to the stuffy, warm car that’s been sitting in the sun all day. It’s almost dark and I sigh with tiredness from the relentless responsibility and tasks, especially given my young age. My pre-teen muscles are sore and my head pounds; I should be at the beach frolicking with friends. As we drive home, I ask my father about the day.
“It seems like you really like kids when we are in the office. Why don’t you like kids at home? Why don’t you like me?”
My father holds a sweating Coors Light can as he drives and he looks over at me, “I hate you. I hate children. You are nothing more than a shit machine.”
The rest of the drive home is silent.
Seniye Groff, MEd, is a lifelong learner. During the day, you will find her focused on human resources and change management initiatives. After hours she loves travel, writing, volunteering, cooking, eating, hiking, playing pickleball and spending time with her two daughters. She is currently on a nomadic, solo journey after selling her house in July 2025. She has been wandering every since and loves the freedom to explore with no defined timeline. She has published works in Adoption Today, Santa Fe Writers ProjectQuarterly, ROVA Magazine and Learning Solutions magazine. Find her online at seniyegroff.com, onInstagram @seniyegroff, and on Substack @seniyegroff.