Mom grew up in an India fighting for freedom from the British Empire. In hopeful anticipation, her parents named her “Child of Victory”.
She was preceded by two brothers, one of whom died before she was born. As the first daughter, she became her father’s darling — he carried her around until she was almost 5 years old, sometimes even taking her to the office with him.
He had his own business, so he was able to do this.
However, the business also wore him out.
When he got home, he wasn’t always cheerful. As his family grew, so did the business, and his temper became shorter. Mom says all of the children were afraid of him.
Not that he beat up on them — she only remembers him hitting someone once, and it was a bully that was tormenting another child. He was a large man with a large hand. He told the larger child to stop hurting the smaller one, and when he didn’t comply, Grandpa slapped him and loosened his tooth.
No wonder the neighbor kids were wary around him — however, his appearance didn’t help. He was a handsome man, but in a country filled with dark-skinned people, he stood out, which frightened some children. He had milky skin and red hair. \When he became angry, his face turned bright red. He was also over 6 feet tall, as can be seen in a photograph taken of him among a group of about 30 men. He stands at least a head taller than the rest.
Among his own family, it wasn’t his appearance they found scary.
It was his look. Apparently he had a piercing stare like a raptor’s that had them immediately get quiet. If he found out they’d misbehaved, he would send them to bed without supper. (Grandma sometimes snuck them a slice of bread.) If he lost his temper, he wouldn’t yell, but his language would be as sharp as knives and cause emotional bleeding.
He loved his children and would do anything for them, but he expected them to behave. He would particularly get upset if he found out they hadn’t treated their mother well. She was a very calm person, but she had a streak of independence. If she disagreed with Grandpa, she quietly did what she wanted and if he called her on it, she ignored him.
I grew up with different family dynamics.
My father had a temper and he yelled when he was angry. But he didn’t believe in hitting his children. He’d been hit a few times as a child and decided he wouldn’t do that.
I was never afraid of my father but I didn’t like it when he lost his temper. He could be fun-loving and indulgent, but when he had a bad day at work and was physically exhausted and stressed out, his patience quickly ran out and he’d yell.
Us kids hated that, so we’d avoid him. But we were never afraid of him. As I grew older, I would argue with him. Later in life, this helped me stand up for myself when I needed to. I wouldn’t back down if I believed I was right.
Also, later in life, I appreciated my father much more. I remembered sweet things he’d done for me. I had many pleasant memories of times we’d shared together — when he took us kids to the playground, or played board games or cards with us, or took the family out for dinner once a week. I remembered that he always encouraged me to excel academically and how proud he was of me. I remember him taking me to see Cinderella and Mary Poppins, and going on the “It’s a Small World” ride at Disneyworld over, and over, and over…
The older I grew, the more I respected him. Now, living with Mom, I also see him through her eyes, and I can understand him better, which means I also understand myself better.
Ultimately, knowing where our parents came from gives us more insight into who we are. We can imitate what worked and avoid doing what didn’t. This allows us to hopefully grow into better people.
I am fighting stage IV cancer. If you can help with medical bills, I would really appreciate it. Or if you enjoy my writing and would like to buy me a cup of coffee, that’s great too. Maybe someday I can return the favor.
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This post was previously published on Shefali O’Hara’s blog.
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From The Good Men Project on Medium
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