Father

I grew up in fear of my father. No, he didn’t beat me. He spanked me for awhile but not to the point that I would call it ‘beating.’ My fear was more primal and irrational than that. I thought he would kill me.

I cannot remember a time when he was not my adversary. My first concrete memory of him is grabbing me by the arm and shaking me, his big pitted face inches from my own bellowing about what a bad boy I was. I was about 4. The disapproval was a daily occurrance stretching from there on and, I’m sure, from there back.

It took me awhile to understand what that was all about. I mean, I had no idea why my dad seemed to hate me so much. I was a cute little kid who very rarely did anything out of line. As I became more and more independent as an adult (I was in my 20s), I began to understand our relationship as a rivalry.

He had never really won my mom. She’d had a long and strong affair while he was away in WWII. It was so significant that she’d actually written him telling him she was leaving him for this other guy. As it turns out the other guy decided not to leave his own wife and my mom was screwed. It took several years after my dad got home for them to resolve their issue and move forward as husband and wife. He finally took her back and got her pregnant with my brother (at least we think it was him) but as I look back it was clear she didn’t want to be with him.

I was a threat because he believed I had the power to take his wife away. It’s all very Oedipal, isn’t it? He did not relate to me as a father would, but as an adversary. He lay in wait for me throughout my childhood, pouncing on anything that could be construed as being wrong or bad and waiving that as a victory banner over his head: another indication that he was a better man than me. He took no joy in my successes; it was my failures that turned him on.

So, my dad was a screwed up asshole and that explains our chilly relationship, right? Simple. Not quite.

As I continued to grow as an adult, getting married and building my own life, I began to understand my mother’s role in all of this. She and I had a secret relationship that happened when we were alone in her kitchen. She taught me that my dad was a necessary evil, an aggressive, angry entity that had to be endured because he kept a roof over our heads. I can remember sitting across the table from my dad being lectured while she stood behind him, rolling her eyes. She rarely inserted herself between us, but let me know that . . . ‘there, you see? Your dad really is the enemy. Stick close to me and I’ll protect you.’

That was the other message from mom: I needed protecting. Though I was precious to her, she let me know that my dad’s attacks were not entirely unjustified. I really was pretty flawed; and I should work to keep as much of my flawed self tucked away as possible. Because if it ever came out how really fucked up I was, I would be destroyed. From that little seed, planted in my mother’s kitchen, I learned to hide much of who I was from the world, not just the flaws — a lot of the good stuff, too. I’m in my 50s now and still coming out little by little.

She was the puppet master. She called the game. She exploited the power she had in the family unit to keep my dad (and unfortunately, me) jumping.

As my dad grew older I began to see that very clearly. Even as comfortable retirees living in Florida, she used his fear that he might lose her — this time to death — to keep him dancing around like a nervous fool.

He was a very frightened little man. Like me, he believed he was terribly flawed and if he ever let his true feelings be known he would be destroyed. Destruction to him would mean the loss of his woman: that one thing that made him appear whole.

In my 30s, we had a bit of a reconciliation. It wasn’t an event, it just sort of oozed into our life. At a time when my own life was not working, he reached out and opened a door for me that allowed me to turn that whole mess around. I can trace every good thing in my life today back to that event. There was nothing in it for him except the joy of seeing my success, which somehow had become important to him.

He became my fan. Not in the overbearing obssessed way that football dads cheer on thier sons, but in a truly pleased more mature fashion. Slowly I began to relax the defenses I’d built between myself and him. I never did see him as a hero — we were far too far along for that — but I did come to appreciate his own hellish situation and to recognize some of the really wonderful things he did for me as I grew up. I even got to thank him a few years before he died. I made him a placcard for Fathers Day that listed, point by point all of the good things he’d done for me and thanking him for them. He cried and cried.

When he died I was living in California. I got the call from my brother that he was pretty bad off after minor surgery. He just wasn’t strong enough and probably wouldn’t make it. I caught a plane to Florida the next morning. I went straight from the airport to the hospital. It was after visiting hours and nobody else was there. I went into his room and saw him laid out and plugged in, ghasping with every breath, laboring to stay alive.

He was not particularly conscious. I got no real response from him. But I know he was aware of me. I held his hand. I thanked him again. I told him it was ok now, that he could leave. I kissed his cheek. And he died. I’m certain he was waiting for me that night. I was that important to him.

I wrote this when I was 54. I’m 75 now, and though my description of our relationship is still true, I have new yearnings. I’m sad that we never got beyond a polite father/son existance. I’m sad that I didn’t take him down to the beach and ask him about his life. I want to know about growing up in Scranton, about his adventures and about the war. I want to know about his passions and his challenges. Today he is 2 dimensional and black & white. I want him 3d and in color.