My Father, The Father
What does being a parent give you
that I will never know? How does
adolescent anger and resentment
over not having the dad my
friends had grow into utmost
awe and respect. I was reading
the newspaper every morning
(or thus my classmates would
have it) before starting school
(first grade, because they didn’t
have kindergarten the year I
was five), and this was all
because of you. Every morning
for hours you and I were locked
away with ABC blocks and a
Fisher-Price tape recorder. I’ve
no real memories of what
transpired, but can remember
the look on Mrs. Renfrow’s
face (first grade teacher)
when she had me out on the
playground during “rest
period” reading The Grapes
of Wrath to her. My father,
short-tempered like his dad,
wanted his kids to have the
things he never got. Piano
lessons, for example. I am
proudly my father in many
ways: perverse, flirtatious
(only its waiters and not
waitresses for me), stubborn,
well able to evoke a strong
sense of confidence, but
generally feeling small,
greedy, but with a keen
tight-lipped understanding
of the restorative powers of
generosity, often incapable
of empathy, difficult to be
satisfied with what is given
me, just plain difficult. But
he clearly lived for his kids,
a father to three sons and a
daughter, a proud sire. And
what that must feel like I
now feel is the big mystery.
