I don’t know much about my father. It’s not a common story of single-parenthood, and has nothing to do with my mother being divorced or widowed. My father has lived with me my entire life. He has never been away for long trips, never had a separation with my mother, and never left my brother and me as we were growing up. Yet, I can’t tell you exactly how old he is. I don’t know much of his hobbies, his fears, or any of the idiosyncrasies that come with living so close to a person; that come with knowing them underneath the persona they portray to the world. He has always been there, and in so many ways, he has been a great distance away. For me he represented the idea of God. Omnipresent, though he was, and knowing the facts of his unconditional love, I still could never figure out exactly how to communicate with him. I think I made peace with God about the same time that I made peace with my father, but there were miles before that destination was reached; eighteen years worth of traveling to be exact.
Growing up I was the kind of kid who was fascinated by the Bradys and Cleavers. When I watched television families speak revealingly to each other, I often blushed just at the thought of saying such things to him. Full House was my favorite show, and I often wished that like Danny Tanner, my father would make funny jokes or give me a loving but firm lecture when I would break curfew or accidentally put a dent in Uncle Jesse’s new convertible. I still have my letters to the Tanner family, asking if they had room for just one more kid. Scribbled in crayon, I kept them hidden away under my bed because I was too embarrassed to ask for the address to San Francisco
My father seemed to be the exact opposite of the sitcom dads I admired. He was unemotional and always carried with him a sort of reverent fear. I never saw him take an interest in any of the normal “dad activities” like sports, hardware, or bass fishing. No, the only hobby I ever saw him participate in was betting on horse races. Every Saturday morning, like clockwork, I would see him leave the house with his jacket on and his racing papers under him arm. He meticulously studied those racing papers at his desk after work, tearing through them with a highlighter and his fountain pen. I was rarely allowed to stay awake until he returned on Saturday evenings, but sometimes I would pretend to fall asleep in my parent’s bed so that I could have him carry me to my room. With my eyes closed, I rested my head on his shoulder and held on tightly to his jacket; which smelled strongly of tobacco and cologne. I loved that smell. It would linger on my clothes for weeks.
As a child my fathers distance was fascinating and interesting, but as I grew into a teenager, his emotional absence turned that same wonder into resentment. His schedule had not changed since my childhood. He left for work before I woke up, and I would catch a glimpse of him as he came back home and headed for his room. If I wanted to find him, he would be at his desk until he left his room for dinner. Since we never ate together, I had even less opportunity for conversation. Rarely did he ever seek me out to talk unless it regarded my schoolwork or my behavior. Those were the only two subjects of my life with which he was ever acquainted with. We loved each other, of course, but it seemed unnatural to express it; better to leave it unsaid and mutually understood. The only time emotions were exchanged between us was when disciplinary matters became too hard for my mom and overflowed onto him. I believed he had no right to dictate rules into my life when he hardly had any involvement. Of course, that never stopped him from grounding me.
It seemed my mom and brother did not seem to notice a problem with his behavior. I noticed my brother began to mirror the same quiet, reserved, and closed tendencies that my father exhibited. He became the honor student and the account ting major; I was the one that painted my ceiling with literary quotes in an act of rebellion. When I questioned my mom for her opinion on the matter she usually responded with different versions of the same sentence, “your father loves you, but he just doesn’t know how to show it”.
The first time I saw my father cry I was already an adult and had come to terms with the fact that we were always going to remain distant. Everything changed when a BMW 350 rear-ended my parent’s car on vacation and my father dislocated his C1 joint. Month’s later, no amount of medication could dull the pain in his back; he even took the risk of permanent paralization to try to correct the problem, but to no avail. He was weeping. My father, with emotional sensitivity of a rock, was weeping. Grasping my hand, he was no longer concerned with his stature, dignity, or his appearance. It seemed he was crying a lifetime’s worth of tears, and I felt for him. I finally understood what it felt like to desperately want to take the pain of another. I saw my father in a way I had never imagined him; vulnerable. Then I realized why he had tried so hard all these years to hold everything inside, he was trying to be strong for us. I had not seen him this way before, but I realized he was afraid. He was human. I forgave him.
My father’s favorite desert is crème brulee. I know that once when he was seventeen, he paid ten dollars to see Bob Marley in concert before anyone had ever heard of him. I know he has a tattoo, but none of this really matters. Most importantly, I know all the things he thinks, but never says. When he sees me, I wait for him to embrace me, hold me, and tell me all his secrets; but he never does. Instead, he mutters something simple, “It’s nice having you around.” That is more than enough. I know it seems morbid, but I look forward to the day when I will be able to speak of him proudly at his funeral. Perhaps, in his absence, I will have the courage to call him “daddy”.
