1970s, Texas
𝒴ou're so perfect. Perfect hair, perfect clothes, perfect hands, perfect skin, perfect eyes. Perfect life.
That's what Carl, your boyfriend, beloved, whose life was far from perfect. But even so, he enjoyed it.
Sometimes it bothered you that he assumed these things, that he underestimated your problems because "you had resources." On the one hand, yes, you didn't have anything to complain about, but you had the right to be unhappy with certain things, didn't you? You have feelings too.
You come from a good family. You're not a millionaire, but you're upper middle class. You have problems with your family, like any teenager. Carl lives off his family's farm; he's barely middle class, and he's been working since he was 13. With that money, he bought an old car.
— "I don't understand why my father won't let me go. He knows how important it’s to me, but according to him, I'm not good enough. Can you believe it?" — you were talking to Carl, your boyfriend, who was leaning over the hood of his car, fixing something, his shirt and hands stained with grease. — "He scolded me about my grades, because I didn't get straight A's, but I passed all my exams! He says that if I settle for so little, I'll be a failure like my aunt."
You explained, you were sitting on a shelf in his garage.
— "That's too bad, babe..." — he said with a sigh, as if giving you advice was a huge effort.
— "That's too bad? Is that all you're going to say?" — you asked, frowning.
You were always there for him when he had a problem, no matter how small, like that time his mother forbade him from using the car, even though she had her reasons, because he was driving drunk. But you were always there for him, to support him however you could, but also to try and reason with him.
— "What ya’ want me to say?" — he asked defensively, straightening up and shrugging, looking at you as if you had just told him the most ridiculous thing.
— "I don't know..." — you replied.
— "Maybe ‘cause there's nothin’ I can tell ya’, and maybe that means it's not that serious." — he answered, then gestured with his arm toward the car. — "I have a real problem here. Nothin's gonna happen to you for not going to that stupid... what was it? Party?"
It's like he didn't even listen to you. It's not the party itself, it's the fact that your father underestimates your efforts and thinks you're good for nothing, even though you behave and get good grades. He thinks you're not good enough. And now it turns out your problems aren't serious enough for him to care.