Understanding Dad - Essay Example

Understanding Dad He was a hard cliff at the end of a long wave, just waiting to reduce me to pulp if I dared step out of line. I don't mean he was abusive. Other than a few spankings as a young child, admittedly well-deserved, I never thought of him as abusive. But he knew just what to say to make me feel about three inches tall and all of them wrong. I was inconsiderate, lazy, disrespectful, not studious enough, not athletic enough, not something enough. No matter what I tried, I didn't give it the full effort he thought it deserved. It seemed he was always waiting to tell me just what it was I was lacking or how much what I was doing was leading me to "nowhere good." Even when he left me alone, he was always there, impossible to ignore, a permanent end to my good time. Dad had that effect on people. Growing up, I resented him for that. Why couldn't he just be cool and look the other way sometimes? It took a real emergency while I was in high school for me to realize how that hard rock I knew as my father hid a warm, passionate center and to make me realize how he had used that rock and that heat to shape me into a better human being as an adult. Throughout my childhood, I participated in a variety of sports and activities. I think I was looking for something my father knew nothing about and had zero interest in learning. The way I figured it, he couldn't tell me I was wrong if he was a newbie, too. He would just have to go along with whatever the coaches, directors or other organizers told him. Maybe it's a blessing, but I considered it a curse that my dad is interested in all kinds of things. Just because he didn't know about it before I started didn't mean he wouldn't start learning about it the moment I took an interest. There I'd be, running for everything I was worth on the cross-country team and he'd be there along the sidelines near the finish line - "Come on! Give it the extra effort now! Don't hold back!" Some of the other kids said they never heard their parents at that point, they were too exhausted and busy trying to keep their lungs from bursting. I was cursed again because I understood every word that came to me in that big, booming voice of his with the crackle of tension lying just under the surface. It only ever came out when he was on the sidelines or really, really angry at home. Maybe that's why I always felt like I was running away from a beating even though he never delivered one. I'm sure it wasn't because of my running speed. Gasping for air and trying to keep breakfast in my stomach, he would walk up to me and tell me how I could improve my pace, increase my speed, correct my form or something else equally irritating. Somewhere in there he'd usually throw in a "good job" or "I'm proud of you," but I was convinced this was just for show so the other parents wouldn't think he was being too pushy. He had to avoid the 'stage dad' persona after all, keep up proper appearances. Somehow, my childhood memory neglected to note that these moments of pride and praise were usually delivered in the car, in private, while we were on our way home or out to a special treat meant just for me without the presence of brothers or sisters to take away the attention. Things only grew worse as I grew up and started to want to hang out with friends instead of family. With this change, I discovered my childhood had been dancing on daisies compared to all the wrong I committed as a pre-teen and teenager. Nothing I did with my hair was right. No matter what style I selected, product or no product, short, long, somewhere in between, dyed, not dyed, popular style or something more traditional, Dad always had something negative to say about it. I couldn't even cover it up with a hat or a hoodie to make things right - then it was the wrong kind of hat or I was trying to be a gangster or "one of those dark kids who think everything in life sucks." Why couldn't he even remember something as simple as Goth? And what exactly about my life didn't suck anyway? If I was home, I was too loud, if I stayed away I wasn't home often enough. I could never seem to time dinner just right so he was mad at me for being late or mad at me for not helping Mom in the kitchen or mad at me because I never could bring myself to like peas. My clothes always set him off, too. They were too baggy or too tight or too short or too long or too colorful, bright, dark, dull, striped, not striped. A kid could never win in this house my dad built. For some reason, I never noticed the times he said I looked good, like when I finally snagged a date to the prom, or the times he'd fondly ruffle my hair as he was walking past me to the kitchen. Who wants a handful of sticky goo when they're just trying to show a little affection? It didn't occur to me that he might feel hurt if we didn't want to spend time with him and Mom or that he might have taken the time to make something special for us that we wouldn't appreciate but he'd tried anyway. I never worried about whether it embarrassed him when I'd show up in something sloppy and wrinkled when he had a friend over for dinner or that he might want to talk about me in the glowing tones I heard coming out of those friends' mouths as they talked about the school bully or the drug fiend party girl. I didn't do any of that stuff, but I looked the part. They did all that stuff, but they looked like the perfect children. I got to feeling that appearance was everything to my dad and I stopped caring, stopped trying. If he couldn't appreciate me for who I was instead of what I looked like, then he didn't deserve to have me around all that much anyway. I was through killing myself trying to make him happy, so I just disappeared. In my room, out with friends, I didn't care as long as I didn't have to spend any more time than necessary in his presence. I started going to parties just so I wouldn't have to go home at night. I still wasn't interested in the drug thing or the drinking thing too much, but some of my new friends were. That was what led to the emergency that finally made everything clear. That night, I'd actually had a few drinks. It was hard to hang out at parties all the time and never drink anything. The other kids got to feeling like you were spying on them and they didn't want you around. Besides, usually all they had to offer was beer or water out of a tap. I'd rather have something cold. The problem was, most people thought of me as kind of like the designated driver. If anyone wanted something, like some fast food, they'd send me. So this one night I'd been drinking a bit when one of my friends decided they wanted to go to McDonalds and decided that I needed to drive because I was always the one who didn't drink. Dad's voice, low and calm, was gravely in my ear as I heard the words "don't drink and drive, for your mother's sake" in my memory. I knew how much I'd had to drink and didn't think it would be too much. Besides, we were just going three blocks and it was the middle of the night - no one else would be around for me to hit. But as I slid in behind the wheel, I heard Dad's voice again and I saw my mom's face reflected on the inside of the windshield. I'd never really considered how much I looked like her. With Dad's strength behind me, I knew I couldn't force the key in the ignition. Unfortunately, my friend Mandy could and she decided she was tired of waiting. She cranked the ignition switch and the engine sprang to life. As I turned to yell at her to stop messing around, she reached around me to put the car in gear and stomped on my foot over the gas pedal. I heard breaking glass and shrieking metal as my body was thrown violently into the steering wheel and the airbag exploded into my left ear, crushing me back against the seat. Before I could figure out what happened, there were people all around yelling and crying and screaming. As the world began to clear, I saw flashing lights and then the inside of an ambulance. All I could think of was "don't call my parents." At the hospital, they examined me, decided there were no broken bones or major internal injuries and that my hearing would probably return to normal in a few days. They kept telling me how lucky I was that I hadn't killed anyone, seemed to blame me for Mandy's broken leg and gave her all the sympathy while I got to sit on a cold hard plastic chair waiting for my parents to come get me and be present while I answered the questions from the police. Dad came in like I thought he would. His steps were so fast, using up every inch of his long legs to carry him just a bit faster than Mom could manage with dignity, he probably could have caught me during my cross country days without a problem. His face was gray and serious until he saw me sitting there, fully clothed, waiting to go home. He walked right up to me, dropped to his knees and hugged me. I didn't know how to respond. Then Mom was there and Dad was up again. Did it really happen? The police were saying something to him and that big, angry voice came out again. "My child would never have started a car drunk! You go ask those other kids. There's another explanation. I know my kid!" Things were about to get really ugly as Dad squared off with the police until a radio cracked on one of the policemen's belts. He walked away with Dad glowering after him and spoke into the radio for a few minutes. When he came back, he asked us to wait a minute and went to go talk with Mandy. When he came back he apologized. Two kids at the party had seen what happened in the car and Mandy had confessed to stomping on my foot. She said she didn't even consider that the car was parallel parked and we'd obviously drive right up on top of the car in front of us. It was only the fact that we didn't have any speed behind us that kept us both relatively injury free. Mandy's leg was broken because it had been where it didn't belong. Dad never said anything else to me about that night. No yelling, no telling me how worthless I was, nothing. All he did was give me an extra hug as I trudged off to a sore bed and treated me tenderly until my minor injuries were healed. I couldn't believe he'd actually seen me all along and knew who I was enough to square off with the police when I was being accused of something out of my character. I knew the fear in his face and the desperate hug he gave me were not figments of my imagination and I started to try, just a little, to please him. It was little things like brushing my hair a certain way, but he noticed. I put in more effort and discovered I could do all kinds of things I didn't think I could do before. I was like a rock, I could take any challenge and overcome. My feelings for Dad grew much deeper with each challenge I met and Dad understood. I knew because he didn't say anything. Read More