On Father’s Day every year – every year, that is, that I’ve been on Facebook – I read with profound curiosity the many Father’s Day posts by my women Facebook friends paying loving tribute to their fathers. I look at these posts and their accompanying old family photos — proud daddies holding up their adored little girls — and think, What must it have been like to have had a dad like that?
(Painting by Judy Schubert)
And then I think, What tribute could I possibly give my own father on this Father’s Day? Up until now I haven’t been able to think of anything.
But this Father’s Day, yesterday, I dug deeper. I can now say that without trying to do so, he taught me things.
A college and law school graduate (though he never practiced law), my father had had high hopes for himself when he was young. He’d wanted to become a writer, another F. Scott Fitzgerald, he once said. But he and my mother, who was one of his many worshipful girlfriends, were forced to marry when she became pregnant with my older brother. So my father’s youthful dreams quickly turned to ever-increasing rage.
He didn’t want to be a married man. He wanted to be free to be himself – a handsome, dashing, charming playboy. He didn’t want to be a father, yet the children kept coming. He didn’t want to live in suburban New Jersey, which he found stultifying – nor work to support this unwanted family at a boring, uncreative, nine-to-five, middle-management office job and report to a boss he loathed.
He could have hit the road, of course, as other men might have. I often wished he did. Instead, he hit the bottle and became a raging alcoholic. When he was drunk, which was often, he behaved like a wild animal in a small cage – mostly in the privacy of our small suburban home. But sometimes even in public.
Eventually, he left, which was a huge relief for all of us; and my heroic mother kept things afloat.
So what did my father teach me? Primarily, not to be like him. Not to turn to alcohol as an escape. Not to blame others for unfulfilled dreams. Not to waste God-given talents. Not to hurt anyone.
Thanks to him, I learned important life lessons early on. I learned not to look to him for anything and how to stand up for myself in every situation. Yes, thanks to him, I learned how to be independent and self-sufficient. He used to say to me when I was small, “You’re on your own, kid!” Now I can say to his memory, “Thank you for that.”
I learned that the line “Father Knows Best” is sometimes a lie. I learned that fathers can be totally wrong. Like the way he used to tell my siblings and me repeatedly that we were all “stupid-and-good-for-nothing.” He couldn’t have been more wrong about that.
I learned that the prevailing system, the patriarchy we all lived under, was not benevolent.
I don’t remember ever celebrating Father’s Day when I was growing up. Nor since. I can’t post glowing Father’s Day remembrances on Facebook, and I have trouble relating to those who do. But I can accept and acknowledge the father I had and appreciate some of what he did. Without intending to, he taught me valuable things.
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So moving, Bonnie. I never knew any of your home situation when we were girls. Knowing now makes your survival and success all the more extraordinary in my eyes. xxs Jan
Thank you, dear Jan. I suspect there are and have always been a lot of kids from tumultuous families who keep their families’ secret secret — out of a sense of shame, perhaps.
Without trying, he made you the Fitzgerald he wanted to be.
You’ve brought tears to my eyes, John. (But in a good way.) Thank you for your sweet sensitivity.
Wow, Bonnie, this must have been awful for you growing up. Thanks for sharing. Best regards.
Oh, but Mikel, it wasn’t all bad! The food was really good. (My mom was a great cook.) And on nice days we kids were always outside, free to play as we wished. We had fun.
So sad….and glad you ‘turned out’ to be the wonderful person you are today!
Thank you, Barb dear. Yes, alcoholism negatively affects millions of families. Mine was only one of many. My job as a writer, as I see it, is to be a small voice for some of the voiceless.
I do agree that you became the exceptional author, in spite of your father’s bad behavior. The images and analysis of just that one short story, crossing the river, piggy-back style, in Mexico, is evidence of that writing…as well as your published books and blogs. Thank you.
Thank you, dear Marie, for your very kind words. It’s odd, but I never set out to fulfill his dreams for himself.
Another “nail hit right on the head.” Sharing this with an abused grand daughter, Bonnie, for her sake, and the future of her dear children, the innocent. Thank you Bonnie for sharing your touching story.
Thanks so much, Sher. And de nada.
Bonnie querida, you turned out a great writer and a beautiful person! Yes, sometimes people teach us without knowing or even intending to do so. Un abrazo.
Gracias, dearest Te. Abrazos fuertes back to you!
My father died of a heart attack when I was six. I do have loving memories of him being one of those happy and proud daddies and still cling to those memories at 78! However my mom remarried 3 years later, and the father you describe unfortunately sounds like a perfect replica of my stepfather…the bitterness, the cruelty, the bullying and the drinking. So I, just like you, learned what kind of a human being I did not want to be. I knew deep down that he was filled either self loathing , and that I was better than that. I learned to be independent and not to be an enabler. So here I am a retired and successful advertising executive, now a professional painter married to a wonderful man and living in beautiful San Miguel. I’m so grateful to the universe for all of these gifts! So I did not allow the 9 years I lived with an abusive man define who I am. So congratulations to both of us for not giving our power away and writing our own stories
Karen, thank you SO much for sharing your inspiring story with us. I deeply appreciate it. Best wishes, Bonnie