Father's Day
Today is Father's Day. For Mother's Day, I wrote her a letter telling her about all the little things I appreciated her doing for me growing up, being low on funds but still wanting to be sincere.
I tried to do the same for my father, but found it to difficult. I love him, and there are so many things that he did and does that garner my respect and admiration. But there are also so many things that he's done... He got a phone call instead, and a superficial reading of what's going on in my life. Here, instead, is my failed letter to my father:
Happy Father's Day
Although I suppose I should call it "Dad's day" because you always hated being called father. Hated it with a fury I never understand, but I supposed it had to do with the fact that it was so formal and you wanted our relationship to be more relaxed. Too bad we can't always get what we want, huh?
It's all of the things you did to me as a child that I never recognized or appreciated that I thank you today. Like coming to every single one of my sports games, even though I sucked, and paying for those self-same sports, even though I hated the bulk of them and only played because you wanted me to be an athlete so badly, and what else was I going to do, right? Thank you for going on all of those Details that forced you to be away from the family. We knew it was to help the family that you and mom foolishly decided to have way too early.
Thank you for trying hard to teach me how to toss a ball, although sporadically. I never had the heart to tell you that I learned more about sports from Sid across the street than I ever did from you, but he was way more patient with me: assuming girls knew nothing about sports, he prepared himself to be patient with me. You assumed that my inferior girl-genes would be overcome by your superior Jerde-genes: you knew it; I was supposed to know it through osmosis. Ironically, I looked forward to and loathed those times you would notice you were supposed to be training me: it was the only time we ever talked or spent any time together, yet I always hated what a disappointed I was to you: I never got the rules fast enough, and my hand-eye-coordination wasn't great. You always said you were proud of me, and I always knew it was a lie. With the exception of the random times I did well in sports, I knew you were never really proud of me. The smartest person in your high school was never important as athlete-you. Those know-it-all egg-head college boys that you work with are still not as good as you: they can't teach what you know out of a book, right? I suppose I should be thanking you for this too: I can understand slightly why there are so many anti-intellectual trends in America because I watched your self-loathing jealousy up close and personal.
Thank you also for teaching me how to manipulate people. You were the master of it: you could be the life of a party. You had a charisma that everyone was drawn to, and the dry ironic wit that people loved and hated. You could make someone feel special with just a compliment and a smile, and you always knew what the insult that would hurt just a little bit more than anything else. You taught me what to look for, and what to do, although I don't think you knew it at the time. I got to watch up-close and personal how you alienated mom from her friends and family, and how you could break her or me or my siblings into tears anytime the thought crossed your mind. I know how you wanted me to be a boy, and how you thought I was a coward: you said so often enough when you were drunk, although it was confidently forgotten when sober.
Thank you for teaching me to shoot. That is genuine: one of the skills I'm glad I have is being able to aim a gun straight. Thank you for teaching me all of the safety rules as well, so I know never to get hurt.
Thank you for teaching me to be careful what I drink. I know that your cruelty isn't caused by being drunk; you're cruel often enough when you're sober. But I know that being drunk can make you worse, and I don't rightly feel like wrapping a vehicle around a tree like you did.
Thank you for teaching me leadership: someone had to shield my sisters from you two arguing. Although, to this day, I shirk responsibility: I could protect them I'd probably just mess anything else up that I had direct control over.
Thank you for practically throwing me into feminism. It was either become a feminist or hate myself for not living up to your wants and expectations of me. You know, the last time you were here in Grand Forks you asked me why I was "so big on the feminist-thing" like it was a fad or something. I felt like yelling at you "Because you BEAT my mother, you selfish FUCK". But I didn't, because even today I am afraid of you. I'm afraid of not doing everything perfect and controlling every small thing around you because you have the capacity to make everyone MISERABLE and walk on egg-shells if you are in a bad mood.
I remember the first time I saw you beat my mom. I'm not talking about the pushing or the slaps; I'm talking serious physical abuse. I was 12. You came home drunk, and I woke up when the screen door slammed (you never seemed to remember how light of a sleeper I was. I've woken up when you or mom came in late for work pretty much every day of my life. I pretended to be asleep on the couch when I was younger to get to watch TV before you carried me up to my room and tucked me into bed). I sat at the top of the stairs, so I could watch and keep my sisters in their rooms. You and mom were arguing over who she dated in high school, and you called her ungrateful lowlife and threw her into the glass-and-pine coffee table. That's when I ran to my sisters' room, so I would be there if you decided to come into the room. You ran out that night, took the truck and drove off because mom hadn't hidden the keys. We went to the old house that night, afraid. It wasn't the only night we hid from you. Thank you for teaching me to fear relationships, at least I'm cautious about the ones I go into.
Thank you from keeping me from peer pressure. I was already so much of a freak because of my weird clothes and keeping people away from my house, there was no point in trying to entice the fickle court of high school popularity. I was able to be my own person because I didn't have a chance in hell of impressing everyone else anyway.
Thank you for making me hate the fact that I was a female. I tried my damnest to be a boy, and now I can compete in a man's environment, but I thank feminism for accepting that I'm female and that's okay. Please quit acting so fucking shocked that I'm not giving you grandkids AND that I'm not a virginal girl. You wanted a boy, you got me: someone that didn't fit into nice little gender roles. Deal.
Thank you for teaching me that hard work was its own reward. That whatever job you do, you should do it the best you could, regardless of the money. Work hard because it's more satisfying, not because you were getting anything from it.
Thank you for realizing you were a fucktard. I realize you’re trying to get back into my life as best you can, and make amends to mom, as best you can. However, it's too little, too fucking late. Divorce mom, because that's a lost cause. She doesn't deserve you. I wish you realize that connecting with your daughters is more than money. Don't get me wrong, the money helps, but we need more emotional work (or at the very least, we need the ability to not be doing emotional work for you).
So Happy Dad's Day. Here is my tribute to you, with its respect, anger, hate, self-loathing, and love that I feel towards you.
I tried to do the same for my father, but found it to difficult. I love him, and there are so many things that he did and does that garner my respect and admiration. But there are also so many things that he's done... He got a phone call instead, and a superficial reading of what's going on in my life. Here, instead, is my failed letter to my father:
Happy Father's Day
Although I suppose I should call it "Dad's day" because you always hated being called father. Hated it with a fury I never understand, but I supposed it had to do with the fact that it was so formal and you wanted our relationship to be more relaxed. Too bad we can't always get what we want, huh?
It's all of the things you did to me as a child that I never recognized or appreciated that I thank you today. Like coming to every single one of my sports games, even though I sucked, and paying for those self-same sports, even though I hated the bulk of them and only played because you wanted me to be an athlete so badly, and what else was I going to do, right? Thank you for going on all of those Details that forced you to be away from the family. We knew it was to help the family that you and mom foolishly decided to have way too early.
Thank you for trying hard to teach me how to toss a ball, although sporadically. I never had the heart to tell you that I learned more about sports from Sid across the street than I ever did from you, but he was way more patient with me: assuming girls knew nothing about sports, he prepared himself to be patient with me. You assumed that my inferior girl-genes would be overcome by your superior Jerde-genes: you knew it; I was supposed to know it through osmosis. Ironically, I looked forward to and loathed those times you would notice you were supposed to be training me: it was the only time we ever talked or spent any time together, yet I always hated what a disappointed I was to you: I never got the rules fast enough, and my hand-eye-coordination wasn't great. You always said you were proud of me, and I always knew it was a lie. With the exception of the random times I did well in sports, I knew you were never really proud of me. The smartest person in your high school was never important as athlete-you. Those know-it-all egg-head college boys that you work with are still not as good as you: they can't teach what you know out of a book, right? I suppose I should be thanking you for this too: I can understand slightly why there are so many anti-intellectual trends in America because I watched your self-loathing jealousy up close and personal.
Thank you also for teaching me how to manipulate people. You were the master of it: you could be the life of a party. You had a charisma that everyone was drawn to, and the dry ironic wit that people loved and hated. You could make someone feel special with just a compliment and a smile, and you always knew what the insult that would hurt just a little bit more than anything else. You taught me what to look for, and what to do, although I don't think you knew it at the time. I got to watch up-close and personal how you alienated mom from her friends and family, and how you could break her or me or my siblings into tears anytime the thought crossed your mind. I know how you wanted me to be a boy, and how you thought I was a coward: you said so often enough when you were drunk, although it was confidently forgotten when sober.
Thank you for teaching me to shoot. That is genuine: one of the skills I'm glad I have is being able to aim a gun straight. Thank you for teaching me all of the safety rules as well, so I know never to get hurt.
Thank you for teaching me to be careful what I drink. I know that your cruelty isn't caused by being drunk; you're cruel often enough when you're sober. But I know that being drunk can make you worse, and I don't rightly feel like wrapping a vehicle around a tree like you did.
Thank you for teaching me leadership: someone had to shield my sisters from you two arguing. Although, to this day, I shirk responsibility: I could protect them I'd probably just mess anything else up that I had direct control over.
Thank you for practically throwing me into feminism. It was either become a feminist or hate myself for not living up to your wants and expectations of me. You know, the last time you were here in Grand Forks you asked me why I was "so big on the feminist-thing" like it was a fad or something. I felt like yelling at you "Because you BEAT my mother, you selfish FUCK". But I didn't, because even today I am afraid of you. I'm afraid of not doing everything perfect and controlling every small thing around you because you have the capacity to make everyone MISERABLE and walk on egg-shells if you are in a bad mood.
I remember the first time I saw you beat my mom. I'm not talking about the pushing or the slaps; I'm talking serious physical abuse. I was 12. You came home drunk, and I woke up when the screen door slammed (you never seemed to remember how light of a sleeper I was. I've woken up when you or mom came in late for work pretty much every day of my life. I pretended to be asleep on the couch when I was younger to get to watch TV before you carried me up to my room and tucked me into bed). I sat at the top of the stairs, so I could watch and keep my sisters in their rooms. You and mom were arguing over who she dated in high school, and you called her ungrateful lowlife and threw her into the glass-and-pine coffee table. That's when I ran to my sisters' room, so I would be there if you decided to come into the room. You ran out that night, took the truck and drove off because mom hadn't hidden the keys. We went to the old house that night, afraid. It wasn't the only night we hid from you. Thank you for teaching me to fear relationships, at least I'm cautious about the ones I go into.
Thank you from keeping me from peer pressure. I was already so much of a freak because of my weird clothes and keeping people away from my house, there was no point in trying to entice the fickle court of high school popularity. I was able to be my own person because I didn't have a chance in hell of impressing everyone else anyway.
Thank you for making me hate the fact that I was a female. I tried my damnest to be a boy, and now I can compete in a man's environment, but I thank feminism for accepting that I'm female and that's okay. Please quit acting so fucking shocked that I'm not giving you grandkids AND that I'm not a virginal girl. You wanted a boy, you got me: someone that didn't fit into nice little gender roles. Deal.
Thank you for teaching me that hard work was its own reward. That whatever job you do, you should do it the best you could, regardless of the money. Work hard because it's more satisfying, not because you were getting anything from it.
Thank you for realizing you were a fucktard. I realize you’re trying to get back into my life as best you can, and make amends to mom, as best you can. However, it's too little, too fucking late. Divorce mom, because that's a lost cause. She doesn't deserve you. I wish you realize that connecting with your daughters is more than money. Don't get me wrong, the money helps, but we need more emotional work (or at the very least, we need the ability to not be doing emotional work for you).
So Happy Dad's Day. Here is my tribute to you, with its respect, anger, hate, self-loathing, and love that I feel towards you.