A regular GMP contributor discusses his own troubled childhood and argues that society might be better served with a single Caregiver’s Day intended to acknowledge the contributions of all the people who have an impact on a child’s well-being.
When asked in 1852 to deliver a “4th July oration” before the Rochester Anti-Slavery Sewing Society, Frederick Douglass decided to unload on the American Dream with both barrels. After a felicitous opening in which he praised the Founding Fathers for their “exact and proportionate movements” and “solid manhood” and whose great deeds “form the staple of your national poetry and eloquence,” he proceeded to rain down rhetorical hellfire that remains capable of thrilling the modern reader, even if it is of a piece with the fervent abolitionism then sweeping some segments of polite and not-so-polite society.
For Douglass, born into slavery in Maryland, “4th July” held scant appeal. He was not among those Americans who had become “remarkably familiar with all the facts which make in their own favor.” “Why am I called upon to speak here today?” he asked. “What have I, or those I represent, to do with your national independence?” Alas, he concluded, “this Fourth July is yours, not mine.” While “you may rejoice,” Douglass “must mourn” because “your high independence only reveals the immeasurable distance between us.”
I first read this speech in my junior year of high school, one of innumerable primary sources carelessly studied and thereafter superficially critiqued in preparation for the Advanced Placement U.S. History exam. At the time, it meant nothing to me. Then again, very little did, since my life had become the shittiest of hells.
Now, of course, I comprehend Douglass’ meaning. In fact, comprehending the meaning of such primary sources is what I do for a living– a living that, save perhaps for the act of conception that quite literally brought me to life, owes nothing whatsoever to the efforts of my father. Oh, how I comprehend it: this Father’s Day, you see, is yours, not mine.
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A stupid Hallmark holiday of four decades’ vintage is no analogue, rough or otherwise, for the American South’s “peculiar institution.” Yet the central conceit in Douglass’ speech and my essay is the same. It is a claim that a gay couple might reasonably make in one of the 38 states that don’t allow them to receive a marriage license; it is a claim that a polygamous or polyamorous couple could make in all 50.
In the performance of his fatherly duties, my dear old dad drove my mother to a badly botched suicide attempt (“she couldn’t even get that right!”), racked up thousands of dollars in credit card debt in my name, forced me to participate as the key witness in a completely fabricated regional “public school teacher sexual abuse trial of the century” case, devoted long hours to lecturing me about the perverted scenarios (most of them homoerotic) in which he believed his various “enemies” participated, used student loans I otherwise wouldn’t have needed to finance his failed third marriage, and once managed to knock me unconscious (a sensation quite different from merely having your bell rung, I assure you). He was, in other words, a real piece of work.
Scarcely a week passed during my preteen years without a half-dozen murder/suicide threats from my father, whose economic fortunes had taken a turn for the worse.
If my father succeeded in teaching me anything, it was that, in spite of my hardships and privations, other people have had it far worse. He had it far worse: he was beaten and likely molested throughout his youth and early adolescence. His parents separated once in the 1940s and divorced in the 1960s, this despite the fact that “such things just weren’t done then.” My mother’s parents also split up in the 60s–as historian Stephanie Coontz ably demonstrates in The Way We Never Were, there has never really been a “golden age” in the history of the American family. For untold and forgotten millions, life has always been terrible and probably always will be.
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The same complaint applies to Mother’s Day, if I’m being perfectly candid. Its century-old pedigree entitles it to a bit more respect, but my co-dependent and psychologically damaged mother–as emotionally threadbare a woman as ever lived–has a great deal to answer for, too. The nuclear family, merely stultifying in most cases, became in my parents’ hands a veritable horror story: rampant unacknowledged infidelity, verbal violence so extreme as to seem almost inconceivable in retrospect (the so-called “nuclear option” was selected in nearly every fight), the “disappearance” of a saintly first wife who happened to be dying at the time of my conception, arrant financial irresponsibility, &c.
Comedic intentions aside, Will Forte’s “Fortin’ with Will” sketch hits way too close to home.
I forgave these two flawed people, but they and others like them do not deserve phony retail extravaganzas to honor their manifold accomplishments. Nor should the survivors of such parental mismanagement have to endure annual reminders that their papas and mamas failed to live up to some Ward and June Cleaver ideal that, taken seriously, likely excludes a vast majority of the American population. This is not out of fear of “triggering” me or anyone else, although I can attest that trauma-induced flashbacks and resultant autonomic responses (watch the Forte video above) are the real deal, but rather because it’s pretty darned disrespectful to do otherwise.
“Oh, don’t give me that politically correct bullshit!” some might bellow. “I mean, already I can’t even say Merry Christmas without getting thrown in jail! And what about the Ten Commandments?” That Ten Commandments bit–everything in quotes, actually–is indeed something that my father, who violates the Decalogue whenever the whim strikes him and never so much as set foot in a church until he decided to scam some old Catholic woman out of her millions, is fond of saying. But here’s the thing: as the rapper Paul Barman observed in the song “Anarchist Bookstore,” “if someone uses a non-offensive vocabulary, then that person is considerate, not PC.” So it’s a simple enough matter to say “happy holidays” and not leave every other co-religionist or non-religionist out of the chance to enjoy the capitalist hootenanny that concludes our calendar year, right? And, by extension, how much harder would it be to fold these parents’ holidays into a single Caregiver’s Day that serves to recognize every other actor who plays a role in a child’s life?
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Although I’m not some big deal “against all odds” comeback story, I owe whatever slight success I’ve achieved to the contributions of a host of men and women who stepped up after my nuclear family fell apart. My father’s brother, who experienced many of the same hurts that he did, saw me through my last two years of high school and my first two years of college. A slew of teachers and professors, recognizing that I had something more than a de minimis interest in my studies, took it upon themselves to expand my intellectual horizons. My cousins became my brothers; my closest male friends became my brothers. All of these people cared for me in a way that my confused, feckless parents and justifiably absent half-sibling never could, and all of these people warrant recognition for their efforts.
I suppose it is a beautiful, Instagram-worthy moment when one encounters a doting father pushing his child on a swing, but isn’t that sort of kindness exactly what we owe everybody who crosses our path? Hillary Clinton found herself chided by the likes of Rush Limbaugh for publishing a work that dared to explore the impact that individuals and groups outside the family have on the well-being of a child, but she was right to do so. Each person we meet is worthy of our time and attention; no person, because of some thoughtless national idealization of a “Father” he or she may never know, ought to feel left out.
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Photo–Flickr/JerryFergusonPhotography
Thank you. I was thinking alone those lines on Sunday. When the bar stool fathers were complaining in force about single mothers celebrating “Their” day. These days are for the kids. To all the men and women who step up and help others myself included. I thank you. But to those who judge me for not loving my abuser, I am sorry I can’t. I even have had people jealous that I did not cry when he died. Sorry he caused enough tears. I was cried out by then. I chose to celebrate the life I have built in spite… Read more »
Thank you for sharing your story. I’m sure it took a lot of courage. I just wanted to give a word of support as a fellow child of a dysfunctional family. My family’s violence and general dysfunction was different, but no matter what form it takes, it leaves scars, doesn’t it? I wrote about my experience here: https://goodmenproject.com/divorce/an-open-letter-to-gen-x-dads/ Now both the men who would have have “dads” to me are gone, dead (my biological father, whom I never had *any* relationship with, and my step-father, who was abusive and who spent the last two decades of his life behind bars).… Read more »
I very much understand your point that this day can be a sore subject for you and for many others in your shoe’s but in theory we should probably get rid of anniversaries because not everyone’s marriage works out and most definitely Valentines day cause not everyone has someone they love to celebrate with?? My dad had a tragic childhood, full of pain and abuse, his father committed suicide 7 days before he turned 8, his step dad was horrible to him but he was strong enough to break the cycle, he was/is an incredible father to me and very… Read more »
Anonymous: I’m sorry your childhood was so painful. Truly. Mine was, too. I understand your ambiguity toward’s Father’s Day. Still, I respectfully disagree with your idea to phase out Father’s Day and replace it with a ‘Caregiver’s Day.’ For several reasons: 1. Yes, my father and step-father were very abusive, but there were other men in my childhood and adolesence who were there for me. I used to give them Father’s Day cards, or a call, thanking them. 2. I’m a father myself. I love being a dad. It’s my favorite, the most difficult, and most joyful role in my… Read more »
You’re a strong person. No person should have had to endure what you have. I say this as the son of a schizophrenic mother and a pedophilic father. It’s nice to hear “the other side” of these holidays from people like yourself. I’ve been in therapy for 2 years and it’s helped immensely as has the book, The Drama of the Gifted Child by Alice Miller. Thank you for sharing your story.
“I forgave these two flawed people,”
From reading your essay, I am finding it very hard to believe that statement is true.
Forgive is not the same as forget.