I don’t much remember my early childhood with my dad. This isn’t so much a specific memory error as I don’t remember much at all anyway. But I do remember holding his hand as I walked as a young kid, or taking naps on Sunday afternoon next to him on the couch.
I remember him coaching (or was it umpiring?) the T-ball team I played on. After getting a hit, I remember fixing my gaze on him as he stood by first base. As I ran up the line, I was running towards my father. I remember how excited I would be if I beat out the play, to stand next to him while I waited for the next batter to get a hit, or the disappointment if I was out, to have to jog back to the bench and leave my dad standing there.
Much later, in my junior year of high school, he and I played on the same church softball team. I don’t remember our team being that good overall, but my dad pitched and I played infield/outfield. It was fun watching him from the center of the diamond, and knowing we were playing the game I (almost*) love together. *Softball is not baseball.
Not everything from my childhood with my dad was roses and sunshine. I also remember being terrified of my dad. “Just wait until your father comes home” was no idle threat, and if I was disobedient, my mother would say variations of that, and I would live in fear the rest of the day of what would happen when my father did arrive home from work. I would usually receive a violent spanking, maybe get yelled at, or have some other abusive punishment. I know now that he was struggling with his own mental health, tough work environments, and the stress of raising me and my brothers and sister. I don’t say this to excuse the abuse, but to put it in context. He did the best he could, even if that was sometimes horrible.
It took me a long time to understand and appreciate my dad. I certainly didn’t know about mental health and stress as a kid or teenager. I just knew my dad would often sleep a lot after work, be moody, and sometimes emotionally unavailable. He would yell, he could be violent, but that wasn’t all he was. He was, and ever is, gracious, generous, loving, ready to help out where he can, paradoxically patient (in relation to his emotional swings), and funny. He is smart, incredibly wise and understanding, and always ready for a good time.
It was from my father that I received, and am ever grateful for, my love of all things science fiction, of Isaac Asimov, of Star Trek, and many other things. We enjoy many of the same books, and films, and he was my gateway to nerd culture. Without him, I would not be who I am today, in more ways than one.
I’ve said before that as I grew up, matured, and left home, I felt like I had two dads. One that wasn’t much fun to be around, and one that I loved a lot. I viscerally hated the first, and enduringly cared for the second. It made for some complicated feelings. As a young adult, I wasn’t around my father much. He was in Papua New Guinea and I was in various colleges, universities, and my first home with my first wife. I spent much of my time nursing an overpowering rage towards my dad as I dealt with my own precipitously declining mental health. My first therapy sessions were more about him and my anger towards him than my failing marriage or anything else.
I often wonder if I had focused my attention in therapy elsewhere if I would still be married to my first wife, and if I wouldn’t know my dad as I do today. That is still an impossible choice to make, even in hindsight, but I all I knew then was an overwhelming cloud of negativity towards him that I wanted to dispel. As I got healthier, got started on medication, and talked so much about our life together, he and I, I realized we had more in common than not, and I learned to love who he is, and accept who he was.
My marriage failed spectacularly, but I regained my father. I will leave history to judge what the ultimate meaning of that is, but I’ll just say I am glad to have a relationship with my dad once again. It was still rocky over the few years following the onset of my therapy, but I am so ecstatic to say that my dad and I have a fantastic relationship now. We can talk about almost anything, we share so many things in common, and we enjoy our time together.
For me, Father’s Day was complicated. I was expected to make cards for, and show appreciate for, a man who at times abused and loved me, who frightened and delighted me, who was there and not there. It was difficult. Now I am so happy that Father’s Day is an uncomplicated time to celebrate my dad, in all his failures and successes.
I cherish and love my dad so much. I am forever grateful that I am his son. I didn’t get to chose my dad, or have much choice over how my first eighteen years played out, but I do get to choose him now. We are both so much in a better place than we were seventeen years ago, and while its been a tough journey, it’s a road we’ve walked together. I look forward to the rest of our travels, my dad and I.
I recently watched Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade with my father, and my favorite part of that film is the relationship between Indy and his father. Their interplay and rediscovery of a wounded relationship was always something I identified with. I have now what they discovered in that film: an appreciation of who my dad is, and a renewed joy in spending life together with him.
In some ways, I will always be running towards my father, following in his footsteps, trying to be the best man he was always striving to be, and didn’t know how to be. I don’t know if I’ll ever arrive where he is, but I do know we can stand together now, safe, and looking forward to what is ahead.
I love you, Dad.
a simple man 