My Father Changed, But My Memories Are Not So Easily Shed.
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Who am I but a comparison to my father? It has taken me many decades to realize that this has been a subconscious belief that I hold. I am not only a reflection of my father, I am also the antithesis of him.
My earliest memory of my father was him making me take a shower. I did not like this and was screaming. Not the best first memory to have of my dad, being physically forced to do something that terrified me. Good memories included fishing and going for family drives.
My memories of my father up until I was a pre-teen are few and far between. He was frequently away on military training and I had a close bond with my mother. I remember when I was six, and we were living in a trailer park in France, we received a call from my mother who was in England with her mother. My Grandmother had just died. As my father put down the phone, he turned, looked at me, and said that Grandma was dead. We stood there looking at each other. I remember that he had a sad look on his face. We were both quiet, not saying anything, with an air of sadness wafting back and forth between us. Neither of us cried.
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I remember him sharpening my skates for hockey. I remember him as he rushed onto the ice and pushed my teeth back into their sockets after I was hit in the face with a stick. I remember him throwing a baseball to me, giving me tips on how to catch, how to take care of my glove, and how to hit.
I remember going to the swimming pool where he worked and feeling like this was an extension of my house. I had access to the pool, his office, and took swimming lessons with my friends. I felt proud of him and the position he held and the benefits it conferred on me.
My Dad also taught me about right and wrong and insisted on honesty when fessing up to misbehavior.
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I remember Boy Scout camps in which my mother and father participated as support personnel, camping across Europe, and those long rides in the back of a VW beetle where my brother and I fought non-stop while my father threatened to spank us if we didn’t settle down. We never did.
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Up until I was twelve, I experienced my father as someone who encouraged me in sports, strongly desired that I do well in school, and was the disciplinarian of the house. My Dad also taught me about right and wrong and insisted on honesty when fessing up to misbehavior. He was also someone who was there when the going got tough. When I was being picked on in school he showed me how to defend myself and enrolled me in Judo and boxing. He also taught me how to shoot a gun.
The trouble started when I began to think for myself. Why? Why was the question I started to ask when he ordered me to do something. He wanted my brother and me to be able to think for ourselves, yet when we did, he was not happy. At this time he was a Sergeant and was used to giving orders without back-talk. Well, I wanted an explanation, especially if what he was requesting did not seem to make sense to me.
Big problem! Our confrontations escalated to the point where, now just imagine this, I was a skinny asthmatic thirteen year-old-kid weighing maybe 100 pounds soaking wet, and my father, all 200 plus pounds of solid muscle, and I are on the landing between the first floor and the basement of our house. We are arguing about something and I think he must have hit me. I remember clearly having tears in my eyes, putting my hands up in a boxer’s pose and telling him that if he ever touched me again, I would kill him. And I meant it. There were many guns in our house and I knew how to use them. My father appeared stunned. He did not say anything and walked away. He never touched me again.
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This moment was the beginning of a long estrangement from my father. Oh, the family sat down for supper together and argued about politics as usual. I would help belay safety rope for him when he was scuba diving under ice. We engaged in family outings and he supported my achievements in sports. But there was this emotional barrier that neither one of use was capable of crossing.
I looked him in the eye and said, “I’m not going to waste your money or my time.” He was devastated.
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As I entered my late teens, the gulf increased as I was failing academically. He could not understand why I was not doing well. What had prompted this turn-around from a top student in elementary school to barely scraping by in high school? I couldn’t explain it either and started to see myself as a failure in both his eyes and mine. That, along with a total lack of interest in mechanics, and my father’s seeming disgust at this disinterest, just deepened my anger towards him.
One of the most upsetting moments for my father, that I can recall, happened when he asked if I was going to university. I looked him in the eye and said, “I’m not going to waste your money or my time.” He was devastated. He had saved up money since I was a kid to send me to university – and I was refusing to go.
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In all fairness, we did have our moments. We bonded, at least to some degree, when we were renovating or building houses. The only problem from my point of view was that I was free labor. In one of our houses we even built a huge bedroom in the basement for me. Interestingly, I enjoyed the work.
Finally, in a fit of pique, after my Dad laid down the law and insisted I either get a job or go back to school, I decided to become an actor. I don’t think he talked to me for a year after that revelation. My Dad is Mr. Practicality and here I was, yet again, demonstrating how impractical I was. “How are you going to make money at that,” he asked? Good question.
In my second year of training, I returned home late one night after a day of school and then four hours of rehearsal. We also put in ten hours of rehearsal on Saturdays. I had been keeping this routine for almost two years and as I dragged my ass in he said, “You work hard at that, don’t you?” This was the first moment in many years that my father was acknowledging me. You see, he valued hard work, even if it was in a field that he didn’t understand. I looked over at him, and said, “Yes, I do.” End of conversation.
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After school I moved three thousand miles away, to the West Coast, and began my acting career. My brother came to visit and stayed, and a few years later my parents moved out as well. It was as if there was a gravitational attraction that kept us in orbit around each other.
I don’t think he had hugged me since I was a child.
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When my parents moved out, they had no idea just how expensive the cost of living was on the West Coast compared to back east. Interest rates were sky high at the time and for the first time in his adult life, my father could not find a job. This was brutal on him. My mother took some re-training and went to work. Now he was alone at home. He commenced renovating the house and engaged in some of the, what at that time was called, women’s work. He started baking bread and cooking meals. This was the beginning of a softening of the armor that my military Dad had always been wearing, even when he left the Armed Forces.
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We, of course, have never talked about this period in his life. But I think he went through some profound changes, or at least an examination of himself, in relation to the life he was living. Eventually, he found work. I’ll give my Dad one thing, he retired early. By fifty-seven, he was living full time on a hobby farm that was paid off. This was the next phase in his transformation. My father was totally happy to retire. There was no way he was going to be bored. He reveled in his free time by being unbelievably busy for the next ten years landscaping, building and farming.
Whatever my thoughts on this explosion of activity, something else was percolating in his psyche. I had now been more or less estranged from my Dad for twenty years. We were like oil and water and buttons were pushed with ease on either side. Then, something changed. I came to visit one day and as I was walking up the path to the front door, he emerged and threw open his arms to hug me. I don’t think he had hugged me since I was a child. I looked at him as I slowed my pace and thought, if he is willing to try, so am I.
The Dad I know now is not that Dad I grew up with. And, the Dad I grew up with is the one inside me.
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We hugged. It was awkward and he certainly did not know how to hug, or at least how to hug a guy. He was as stiff as a board, but he was making the effort. That was the beginning of a thawing and eventual warming of our relationship. We still had disagreements when we talked politics or money at dinner, but after a few years there came a point when we both were able to sense when the conversation was going to get personal and backed off.
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My dad’s transformation was not subtle either. Now, at eighty-five, he is the most caring, gentle, and loving man I know. He says he loves me. He hugs me as if it may be the last time – and indeed it may be. I recognize qualities in him that were probably always there, but now they are out in the open for all to see. When we meet, there is a tenderness between us that is hard to define.
I have changed too. I think about money more like he does, I have a strong work ethic which I attribute to him, I became skilled with tools and house building, and I’m moody like him, or so my wife tells me. That’s a hard one to swallow as I hated his moods.
This is where it gets complicated. The Dad I know now is not that Dad I grew up with. And, the Dad I grew up with is the one inside me. All the anger, upset, and unsaid vitriol that makes me want to yell and scream has no place to land. The man today, my father, is a different person. Who I am today is in large part a reaction to who he was all those many years ago. And like him, I too must make a transformation. At least I can see the path that he walked and I am thankful for this. If he can change, I can change. My Father, my self.
Photo: Flickr/Stephanie L
Your story is all to common. Due to my close location to a military base and a hobby I have, I’ve met and befriended many “military dads’. The worst I have seen are veterans that served in Korea and Vietnam. These men are carrying around dark and guilty secrets. In 1983 Australian folk, band, Redgum, released a song called ‘Walk in the light green’. It was based on the story of the leads brother in law. For the first time someone had recreated the emotions and darkness locked inside there heads. It especially help that the song was a hit… Read more »
“I remember clearly having tears in my eyes, putting my hands up in a boxer’s pose….”
Such a dramatic story…I wonder how often that happens between fathers and sons…
Well written…!
Thanks Leia. Fortunately for me my father did not hit me at that moment. I have heard all too many stories of boys being violently assaulted by their fathers. That experience was a defining moment for me. I set my boundaries in no uncertain terms. Life was still tough but I was not touched again. This carried over when I became involved with women. I was not willing to have violence perpetrated on me and was clear about it when anyone attempted to cross those boundaries.