Metallage

Metallage (me-tal’-la-gee): When a word or phrase is treated as an object within another expression.

“That’s it. Say ‘I can’t do it’ once more, and I’ll make sure it’s true. You’ll never do anything again. Nothing. Got it? I learned how to drive a car. So can you. Anybody can, unless you’re disabled somehow, and you’re not.”

This is how it went. I would say “No” and Dad would threaten to kill me if I didn’t do what he wanted me to do. He was bossy to the max. It was like living with an angry dictator. The “learning” thing wasn’t something I wanted to do outside school—that’s where you learned—where you were supposed to learn. Not with your crazy father yelling at you.

Take this for example: Dad decided it was time for me to learn how to use the power mower. I said “No” and he said he would kill me if I didn’t. So, it was time to learn how to mow the lawn with gasoline mower.

My father said “Hold over there on that thing.” He pulled the rope on the side of the lawnmower it started, and took off with me dragging behind it. I got to the edge of the yard and my father was yelling “Disengage the clutch!” I had no idea what he was yelling about. I let get go of the lawnmower. It took off across the street and headed for the neighbor’s dog sleeping under their car in the driveway. The dog jumped up and bumped his head on the rear bumper and ran away. The lawnmower hit the car’s bumper, bounced off and took off in another direction with me chasing it. It was too fast for me. I watched as it rolled down the sidewalk through the gate to the municipal swimming pool, and into the water. Me and Dad pulled it out of the pool and dragged it home. Dad told me he was hiring a hit man to take care of me. I was terrified for a week. Then, he told me he was going to give me another chance. He had a landscaper friend who taught me how to run our new power mower.

So, home learning was two phases: Phase 1. Dad doing a terrible job leading to a catastrophe, blaming me and threatening to kill me. Phase 2. Finding somebody who knew what they were doing to teach me. Dad just couldn’t give up Phase 1, no matter what. So now I was going to learn to drive a car—a big metal car—a potentially fatal lesson. I begged and pleaded for a proper instructor, but two days later I was sitting behind the wheel of our Oldsmobile with Dad in the passenger seat. He pointed and said “Turn that key until the motor starts. Pull that lever down from P to D and press on the pedal on the floor.” When I pressed on the pedal, nothing happened. Dad said, “That’s the brake pedal nit wit.” We were starting to roll down the street. I located the gas pedal to the right and pressed it down, the tires squealed and I could smell burning rubber. We went roaring down our residential street, hitting 50mph. We were headed for our neighbor’s house at the end of the street. I remembered the brake and pressed it. The Oldsmobile skidded to a stop sideways.

Mt father said, “Get out of the car and walk home loser. You better start thinking about the future now, because you don’t have much. The mob will take care of you, and don’t beg—I’m just sick and tired of your stupidity.” I knew it was an empty threat and I didn’t worry, until I saw this guy with a mustache and a bulge in his jacket walking up our sidewalk. I ran out the back door. When I came back home, my mother told me my driving instructor had been looking for me and had left his card.

Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)

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