More Father Thinking
As I watched my father today interact with the children I was able to articulate an understanding about him, about the way he is now, was then, and always will be.
Once, when I was about twelve or so, my father had a bucket full of chili peppers that he’d just harvested from the garden. He decided that they needed to be frozen and that I would be the one to prepare them -- a process that involved cutting off the stem, opening each one up and washing out the seeds, and removing the white ribby part on the inside so that we’d have just the flat chili skin left to put into bags. There had to be at least 100 chilies, and being a kid I had no idea what happens when your fingers come into contact with chili innards. Within just a few minutes capsaicin had found it’s way into the scrapes on my hands, into my mouth, my mucus membranes, my eyes, my ears, my hair, probably even between my toes. I was told to continue working in spite of the fact that I was crying in intense pain, and I did so until my mother came home and discovered what was happening.
My father is not an inherently cruel person, and while the above incident illustrates cruelty, I understand now that this was not his intention. Indeed, he had only one intention -- that what he’d set out to have happen be completed to his satisfaction (the peppers get cleaned and prepared for freezing). There were other incidents, more and less cruel than this one, and I can see how they each stemmed from a fundamental self-absorption and complete lack of empathy.
This came up today with R. and I. during one of my father’s picture-taking sessions. They didn’t want to stand still for the photo, but he’d set out to take the picture in a certain way and was not going to relent until it was done. They ended up getting upset and crying, and I had to intervene and tell him to lay off in nearly the exact tone of voice that my mother used during the chili pepper incident.
godlikepoetasked me if I am able to love my father, and that question has been on my mind for much of the day. He’s my father, so yeah, I suppose I love him in some sort of complicated way. I don’t write him out of my life, don’t turn him away, and will do whatever is necessary to take care of him in the future. But if I imagine trying to create a eulogy, to speak of my love in a clear and unwavering voice, to remember a man that was there for me in any significant emotional way, I find that I’m left in sort of a blank no-mans-land empty of words and feeling.
Once, when I was about twelve or so, my father had a bucket full of chili peppers that he’d just harvested from the garden. He decided that they needed to be frozen and that I would be the one to prepare them -- a process that involved cutting off the stem, opening each one up and washing out the seeds, and removing the white ribby part on the inside so that we’d have just the flat chili skin left to put into bags. There had to be at least 100 chilies, and being a kid I had no idea what happens when your fingers come into contact with chili innards. Within just a few minutes capsaicin had found it’s way into the scrapes on my hands, into my mouth, my mucus membranes, my eyes, my ears, my hair, probably even between my toes. I was told to continue working in spite of the fact that I was crying in intense pain, and I did so until my mother came home and discovered what was happening.
My father is not an inherently cruel person, and while the above incident illustrates cruelty, I understand now that this was not his intention. Indeed, he had only one intention -- that what he’d set out to have happen be completed to his satisfaction (the peppers get cleaned and prepared for freezing). There were other incidents, more and less cruel than this one, and I can see how they each stemmed from a fundamental self-absorption and complete lack of empathy.
This came up today with R. and I. during one of my father’s picture-taking sessions. They didn’t want to stand still for the photo, but he’d set out to take the picture in a certain way and was not going to relent until it was done. They ended up getting upset and crying, and I had to intervene and tell him to lay off in nearly the exact tone of voice that my mother used during the chili pepper incident.
godlikepoetasked me if I am able to love my father, and that question has been on my mind for much of the day. He’s my father, so yeah, I suppose I love him in some sort of complicated way. I don’t write him out of my life, don’t turn him away, and will do whatever is necessary to take care of him in the future. But if I imagine trying to create a eulogy, to speak of my love in a clear and unwavering voice, to remember a man that was there for me in any significant emotional way, I find that I’m left in sort of a blank no-mans-land empty of words and feeling.