Dad
Sometimes I wonder if Freud wasn't right after all. About all men having a subconscious desire to kill their fathers. Not that I go along with the idea that the reason they want to kill their fathers is so they can have sex with their mothers. That seems like pushing a good analogy too far, till it goes over the edge of the cliff. Just because Oedipus did it, and he's the only classical figure you can think of who killed his dad, doesn't mean that's going to be a universal archetype.
When I was a very young child, Dad often seemed like a distant, fantastic figure that Mum talked about all the time and told stories about. It was a time in ancient history, when mothers stayed at home and looked after the house and children (and in our case the sick grandfather), and fathers went out to work. Dad went out to work all day Monday to Friday, and Saturday mornings too. Then he would come home, and Saturday lunch would be some kind of special event, which included, as its invariable dessert, suet pudding with golden syrup and custard.
Nearly fifty years later, it's not easy to read back the memories and accurately interpret what was going on. Some of my difficult memories are about things that I bought. I didn't have a lot of pocket money, and the things I really wanted to spend it on were often not the things my parents thought wise. (Is this a law of human nature? No doubt parents really are more experienced in money and its uses; but that doesn't necessarily make them wiser about a child's needs and desires, and the best ways for the child to acquire that kind of experience-based wisdom.)
One day I bought some items from the jokes department of our local sweet and toy shop. They included some comic visiting cards with names like I.M.Swanky. Mum wanted to look at them and - what, to encourage me? - said they were funny and I should show them to Dad when he came in. By this time I was a bit embarrassed about some of them and thought they might be rude. I didn't understand some of them or why they were funny, but I knew a lot of things people thought funny were rude; and I thought I might get into trouble about them. So I threw them in the rubbish bin. Sadly this was one of those occasions when Mum remembered I had something to show Dad when he came home. So he heard about my purchase; then came the questioning, the embarrassment, the attempts at evasion, the confession, the hunting through the rubbish, the discovery that I wasn't going to be told off or punished, and the humiliation of it all.
Somewhere behind this trivial and still painful memory lies the question: Why was I afraid of my father? A mild-mannered, sociable man, who I hardly remember raising his voice, and never remember hitting me. Is there, somewhere here, the reality of a stressed young mother, finding it hard to raise a child and look after an ageing father-in-law who had suffered a stroke, and more than once set fire to his bedding by smoking in bed, and trying to instil discipline with the words, 'Wait till your father gets home'?
But apart from memories of fear and embarrassment, there are memories of anger, some of which I now see as justified. The times of resentment at parental expectations, the times of feeling pressed into a mould of someone else's making, the times of not being free to be myself. I guess that Mum and Dad would feel mortified to hear this, or would justify what they did on the grounds that they only wanted what was best for me. Hence their urging me to get outside and enjoy some fresh air, or to work with Dad in the garden, or help wash the car; when what I wanted to do was sit with my nose in a book.
Now that I have been a father myself, and more or less successfully or otherwise seen four children through to adulthood, I've been on the receiving end of some of their critical assessments of the experience. The word expectations cropped up there too. And I hotly denied it: "We never expected anything of you!" (Except that you would be bright, gifted, would want to work hard at school, because that's what we did; though we never pressured you like some parents we could name; and yes, we expected that you would make something of life because that's the way to be happy, and that's what we really want for you. Which begins to add up to what a child might feel as a pretty heavy weight of expectations.)
Later on, when I was a self-centred and probably obnoxious adolescent, Dad certainly wanted to be a friend and mentor. It was part of his attempt to be a good father. But I was going through a reclusive and non-communicative phase, and his efforts to talk to me, to establish genuine communication, were met with a stony and moody silence. On one occasion this became too much for him and he burst out with his true feelings about it all: "You must find it terribly difficult to communicate!" This made me furious - though I didn't communicate my fury - for was I not a poet, a writer, top of the class in all linguistic skills, one who was learning to be the great literary artist? And I had better things to do than make small talk with mere parents! Did I say probably obnoxious?
And now this kindly and infuriating and successful Dad is himself becoming a child. In his 80s, and physically strong, his mind is being eaten away by whatever it is that Alzheimer's does to the mind. He is abdicating, like someone putting off a heavy garment they can no longer wear, his role as the strong support, the breadwinner, the practical man who was always pottering, tinkering, making and doing things. And he is letting himself become childishly dependent, mentally and emotionally, on Mum who is physically not well, who is indeed too frail to bear this burden.
From somewhere in him, there are emerging distressing habits that are both like, and totally unlike, the man he has been. He sits repeatedly wiping his nose on his handkerchief, and then spreading it out on his lap like a napkin. If it is a table napkin he has on his lap, he wipes his nose on that and spreads it out again. He gets up and wanders around the house, with some idea in his mind about something he wants to do or look at or find, but can't remember what it is, and doesn't recognise it if he does find it. He agrees enthusiastically with everything that anyone says, and you know his agreement has none of the value it once had, because it's coming purely from a desire to please, rather than any mental place that could be called an opinion.
And all the time you know, this is only going to get worse; and you dread some of the ways you know it can get worse. The wandering off completely, the failure to recognise loved ones, the violence that can be symptoms of Alzheimer's. And you are angry with him, and for him. And you dread the day when you will wish him dead because you've already lost him, and you don't want him or the people who love him to suffer any more.
I love my Dad. I wish I had loved him better. These are my particular memories of him, today. They are particular, personal; I think that perhaps is what makes them universal.
When I was a very young child, Dad often seemed like a distant, fantastic figure that Mum talked about all the time and told stories about. It was a time in ancient history, when mothers stayed at home and looked after the house and children (and in our case the sick grandfather), and fathers went out to work. Dad went out to work all day Monday to Friday, and Saturday mornings too. Then he would come home, and Saturday lunch would be some kind of special event, which included, as its invariable dessert, suet pudding with golden syrup and custard.
Nearly fifty years later, it's not easy to read back the memories and accurately interpret what was going on. Some of my difficult memories are about things that I bought. I didn't have a lot of pocket money, and the things I really wanted to spend it on were often not the things my parents thought wise. (Is this a law of human nature? No doubt parents really are more experienced in money and its uses; but that doesn't necessarily make them wiser about a child's needs and desires, and the best ways for the child to acquire that kind of experience-based wisdom.)
One day I bought some items from the jokes department of our local sweet and toy shop. They included some comic visiting cards with names like I.M.Swanky. Mum wanted to look at them and - what, to encourage me? - said they were funny and I should show them to Dad when he came in. By this time I was a bit embarrassed about some of them and thought they might be rude. I didn't understand some of them or why they were funny, but I knew a lot of things people thought funny were rude; and I thought I might get into trouble about them. So I threw them in the rubbish bin. Sadly this was one of those occasions when Mum remembered I had something to show Dad when he came home. So he heard about my purchase; then came the questioning, the embarrassment, the attempts at evasion, the confession, the hunting through the rubbish, the discovery that I wasn't going to be told off or punished, and the humiliation of it all.
Somewhere behind this trivial and still painful memory lies the question: Why was I afraid of my father? A mild-mannered, sociable man, who I hardly remember raising his voice, and never remember hitting me. Is there, somewhere here, the reality of a stressed young mother, finding it hard to raise a child and look after an ageing father-in-law who had suffered a stroke, and more than once set fire to his bedding by smoking in bed, and trying to instil discipline with the words, 'Wait till your father gets home'?
But apart from memories of fear and embarrassment, there are memories of anger, some of which I now see as justified. The times of resentment at parental expectations, the times of feeling pressed into a mould of someone else's making, the times of not being free to be myself. I guess that Mum and Dad would feel mortified to hear this, or would justify what they did on the grounds that they only wanted what was best for me. Hence their urging me to get outside and enjoy some fresh air, or to work with Dad in the garden, or help wash the car; when what I wanted to do was sit with my nose in a book.
Now that I have been a father myself, and more or less successfully or otherwise seen four children through to adulthood, I've been on the receiving end of some of their critical assessments of the experience. The word expectations cropped up there too. And I hotly denied it: "We never expected anything of you!" (Except that you would be bright, gifted, would want to work hard at school, because that's what we did; though we never pressured you like some parents we could name; and yes, we expected that you would make something of life because that's the way to be happy, and that's what we really want for you. Which begins to add up to what a child might feel as a pretty heavy weight of expectations.)
Later on, when I was a self-centred and probably obnoxious adolescent, Dad certainly wanted to be a friend and mentor. It was part of his attempt to be a good father. But I was going through a reclusive and non-communicative phase, and his efforts to talk to me, to establish genuine communication, were met with a stony and moody silence. On one occasion this became too much for him and he burst out with his true feelings about it all: "You must find it terribly difficult to communicate!" This made me furious - though I didn't communicate my fury - for was I not a poet, a writer, top of the class in all linguistic skills, one who was learning to be the great literary artist? And I had better things to do than make small talk with mere parents! Did I say probably obnoxious?
And now this kindly and infuriating and successful Dad is himself becoming a child. In his 80s, and physically strong, his mind is being eaten away by whatever it is that Alzheimer's does to the mind. He is abdicating, like someone putting off a heavy garment they can no longer wear, his role as the strong support, the breadwinner, the practical man who was always pottering, tinkering, making and doing things. And he is letting himself become childishly dependent, mentally and emotionally, on Mum who is physically not well, who is indeed too frail to bear this burden.
From somewhere in him, there are emerging distressing habits that are both like, and totally unlike, the man he has been. He sits repeatedly wiping his nose on his handkerchief, and then spreading it out on his lap like a napkin. If it is a table napkin he has on his lap, he wipes his nose on that and spreads it out again. He gets up and wanders around the house, with some idea in his mind about something he wants to do or look at or find, but can't remember what it is, and doesn't recognise it if he does find it. He agrees enthusiastically with everything that anyone says, and you know his agreement has none of the value it once had, because it's coming purely from a desire to please, rather than any mental place that could be called an opinion.
And all the time you know, this is only going to get worse; and you dread some of the ways you know it can get worse. The wandering off completely, the failure to recognise loved ones, the violence that can be symptoms of Alzheimer's. And you are angry with him, and for him. And you dread the day when you will wish him dead because you've already lost him, and you don't want him or the people who love him to suffer any more.
I love my Dad. I wish I had loved him better. These are my particular memories of him, today. They are particular, personal; I think that perhaps is what makes them universal.
posted by Tony at 10/29/2004 03:30:00 pm
2 Comments:
Thanks for sharing so honestly, Tony.
Oh Tony...BIG hugs.
I lost my father when I was still young enough (a naive 18) to believe him perfect, and that has influenced so much of everything else since then. Your words re non expectations of our children resounded loud and clear with me...but the wonderful thing is the way they seem to love us regardless of the burdens we place on them. Oddly enough, that reminds me of someone else we know....
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