My father once helped me to make a pine wood derby car out of balsa wood, even melting lead and pouring it molten in to a hollowed out part to make it front heavy for the boyscout race event. I think the prize was a cake. We didn't win, but I was proud of that car, even tho I knew I hadn't done much except watch dad create it. I looked on in awe.
My father once played catch with me in the front lawn of our first house in Hawaii, in Foster Village and I was happy to be with him even tho we both knew my calling would never be in sports. He once watched me make a soccer goal - for the oppossing team. I don't know if I cried, but I'm sure I wanted to.
My father once pulled me out of school, kindergarden maybe, in Virginia. I felt important, because he had so much pull that his just showing up at shcool and saying, "Give me my son." had weight over all my teachers. We toured Washington DC and I remember him being dressed in his Navy Whites and all day I felt important and loved. He bought me a hot dog near the the reflecting pond by the Washington Monument and I have never tasted a hot dog like it since.
My father once drove all the way from Italy to Germany to save me from a life as an orphan, to save his life too.... and provided for me a very good life. I never met my fathers parents and his relatives that he visits on a regular basis now remain out of my life.
My father, more than once hung out in a separated bedroom, while my mom spanked me.
My father never once laid his hand on me. Never. I don't know what was more painful...not being touched, never being hit, knowing he was standing by as mom dealt her worst.
My father once traveled back to Ohio, where he grew up to bury is first wife whom's death certificate states death by overdose of barbituates.
My father was a disc jockey in a former life....then spent 30 years in the navy.
My father once stood in a bedroom removed from mine and listened.....while I was made to go into the garage and pick out a 2 x 4. I carried it into the bedroom and handed it to my mother without looking at her. Fuck the "switch"...I would rather have had a 'switch". I got the 2 x4. By todays standards, yes, abuse...but back then, discipline - and what 8 year old has the nerve to stand up and do something like tell a neighbor....call the police? "It's complicated", put so succintly in your blog, Tallulah. And it is complicated.
There is love, avoidance, neglect, complacency, passive agressiveness....and all the while, as an adult, I have always allowed my Father the words, "He did the best he knew how with what he had." I know that you use that allowance, the same words, too. What else would we use...how else could we negotiate the feelings, stand up to the pain, grow beyond something that sucks so obviously...the child I once may have become sits on the bank of a river in Virginia with my fishing pole. The fish seem blind and nose violently past my hook.
They could take it, let the barb sink deep into a lip or cheek. They choose not.
"Even discontent is better than nothing. Even a denial can be an affirmation."
As an adult, I tend to look upon my feelings about my parents like a bowl of fish hooks....I can't just pick one without ALL of them straggling along too....I agree with...you.
It's complicated.
My father once played catch with me in the front lawn of our first house in Hawaii, in Foster Village and I was happy to be with him even tho we both knew my calling would never be in sports. He once watched me make a soccer goal - for the oppossing team. I don't know if I cried, but I'm sure I wanted to.
My father once pulled me out of school, kindergarden maybe, in Virginia. I felt important, because he had so much pull that his just showing up at shcool and saying, "Give me my son." had weight over all my teachers. We toured Washington DC and I remember him being dressed in his Navy Whites and all day I felt important and loved. He bought me a hot dog near the the reflecting pond by the Washington Monument and I have never tasted a hot dog like it since.
My father once drove all the way from Italy to Germany to save me from a life as an orphan, to save his life too.... and provided for me a very good life. I never met my fathers parents and his relatives that he visits on a regular basis now remain out of my life.
My father, more than once hung out in a separated bedroom, while my mom spanked me.
My father never once laid his hand on me. Never. I don't know what was more painful...not being touched, never being hit, knowing he was standing by as mom dealt her worst.
My father once traveled back to Ohio, where he grew up to bury is first wife whom's death certificate states death by overdose of barbituates.
My father was a disc jockey in a former life....then spent 30 years in the navy.
My father once stood in a bedroom removed from mine and listened.....while I was made to go into the garage and pick out a 2 x 4. I carried it into the bedroom and handed it to my mother without looking at her. Fuck the "switch"...I would rather have had a 'switch". I got the 2 x4. By todays standards, yes, abuse...but back then, discipline - and what 8 year old has the nerve to stand up and do something like tell a neighbor....call the police? "It's complicated", put so succintly in your blog, Tallulah. And it is complicated.
There is love, avoidance, neglect, complacency, passive agressiveness....and all the while, as an adult, I have always allowed my Father the words, "He did the best he knew how with what he had." I know that you use that allowance, the same words, too. What else would we use...how else could we negotiate the feelings, stand up to the pain, grow beyond something that sucks so obviously...the child I once may have become sits on the bank of a river in Virginia with my fishing pole. The fish seem blind and nose violently past my hook.
They could take it, let the barb sink deep into a lip or cheek. They choose not.
"Even discontent is better than nothing. Even a denial can be an affirmation."
As an adult, I tend to look upon my feelings about my parents like a bowl of fish hooks....I can't just pick one without ALL of them straggling along too....I agree with...you.
It's complicated.
WOW. There's a lot of pain in this piece. I too grew up during those "Spare the rod, spoil the child" days, a time when being hit with a metal clothes hanger that left welts for days was "for your own good". ... We're ALL survivors in one way or another, aren't we?
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