For my dad
My dad and I had a complicated relationship. To me he was often something of a mystery. When I was young, I would fantasize about following him to work, invisibly. I thought it would give me some kind of new information about who he was outside of our family. I wanted to know that person.
I can remember all the things that amazed me about my dad. And the ways he seemed otherworldly to me. He had huge hands and forearms that I idolized. He would pick us up in the pool, holding both of our feet in one hand, and toss us in the air as far as he could. His forearms were wide enough for tattoos that most people couldn’t fit across their biceps.
Stories from his childhood seemed right out of a Steinbeck novel. As a kid, I loved to tell people that he started smoking when he was 14. And that for Christmas when he was young, he would hope to get an orange and a cap gun. He only recently told me that his childhood home was destroyed in a tornado, while he and his mom were sheltering in it.
He had other stories that only slowly came out. I remember going to the movies with him once, which we rarely did, to see Apocalypse Now. During the course of the film, he would offer commentary about war that he had never shared. When the choppers would arrive in the film, they would kick up a blizzard of dust. He told me “That’s just how it was. You couldn’t see a foot in front of you.” When soldiers were getting high, he observed, “Those are the ones who never made it out.” It was as if some of the most intimate feelings he ever shared with me could only be shared in the dark.
As I grew up, it became even harder to get close to him because we didn’t really have a lot in common. And the passion we seemed to share the most, politics, became the thing that drove us further apart. It certainly wasn’t the only thing that pulled us apart. My dad had a temper, and I often felt that it was unfairly directed at me. I began to avoid him and couldn’t wait to leave home.
But the things I didn’t understand about him could also surprise me in positive ways. I remember in college, more than once he appeared at my door, unannounced, because he was “in the area.” Williamstown, Massachusetts was hours from any “area” my dad might have reasonably found himself. I took these kinds of grand gestures as unspoken attempts to be closer to me, to get inside my world. They meant a lot.
Once I left home, it was possible to work on our relationship in ways that weren’t possible before. Politics remained a third rail, but it was like we couldn’t stay away from it. Talking politics was one of the few ways we could truly connect. Conversations would still too often end up with him exploding, but we kept trying.
When I think about my childhood and my experience with my father, I can only remember events as I lived them. I can’t change the fact that I wanted my dad to hug me and hold me, to tell me everything was going to be alright when I was deeply afraid it wouldn’t be. It’s hard to see a parent as a whole person, with their own insecurities, their own traumas, their own hopes, their own fears. I wish my dad had shared more with me. I wish he had really let me know him. But perhaps I could have tried harder to let him know me.
Despite our differences — and despite the ways in which I was never sure my dad really understood me — he ultimately let me be me and supported me unconditionally. He never questioned my desire to attend a small liberal arts college that he’d never heard of. He never challenged my desire to stay in New England after college. And when I started seeing Stephanie, he made a point to meet her before I was able to bring her home — all of a sudden having a sales call “in the area.” And he loved her immediately, because I loved her. In these big ways, he was always there for me.
About 25 years ago, I found out that I was actually adopted by my dad after he married my mother. It’s one of those secrets that hides in plain sight your whole life. As I became old enough to see that something was amiss, before I learned of my adoption, I assumed the circumstances behind this secret explained the source of my dad’s resentment toward me, why he was so angry. This had my operating hypothesis until I was 30 years old.
The truth, however, was that my dad had actually chosen me. He had, in fact, decided to be my father. He wanted me. This revelation answered many questions, but still not all.
In the past few years, as my dad became sick, he also became very emotional. Almost every call resulted in him getting choked up or breaking down. His regrets bubbled to the surface. Things that hadn’t been said seemed to become important to say. Just a few months ago, we were talking on the phone about my kids. He was praising them, as grandparents do, but he made a point to credit me for what good people they’ve grown up to be. I deflected the compliment. But through his own tears, he persisted. My dad wanted me to know what a good dad I’ve been. The best, he said.
Another grand, generous gesture that took me by surprise. One that came at just the right time. Thank you, Dad. It was sometimes a rocky road, but I loved you very much. And I know you loved me. I do.
n.b. I wrote this piece last week after my dad died, and I read it at his memorial. Some of these feelings and memories I’ve shared previously, some I haven’t. I don’t know if it’s a eulogy, exactly, but it’s what I wanted to say.
