Too unimportant to ignore
With my dad, I have exactly the opposite of the problem most men have with their fathers: he and I only seem to be able to talk about things that are really important. Imagine the stereotypical, kind of WASPy father-son relationship, only able to talk about sports and the stock market. Not me. I can tell him when I'm in trouble. I can come to him with any kind of concern. I didn't bat an eye about coming out to him when I was just fifteen. If I'm upset about something, I can vent my spleen at him, and while he will sometimes obnoxiously try to solve the problem for me, at least I know I can talk to him about it. It's just that outside of solving pressing problems and dealing with important stuff, we barely have a relationship.
I was talking to my mom about this over a bowl of Pho a week ago, when I went back to DC for Thanksgiving. My mom and I don't have this problem. Anyone can talk to her about anything. If my dad is the one who's more likely to understand and deal with something, my mom's the one who's more likely to actually make you feel better after talking. Back in High School, my friends would call my house, and when I picked up, they'd ask to talk to my mom. She's a great listener - I learned my best listening skill from her: whatever someone is telling you, repeat it back to them in your own words, as best as you understand it. In the worst case, they'll correct you if you've misunderstood. On the average case, they feel listened to. In the best case, the person you're talking to will find what you've just said very insightful. That logic, though, is mine. My mom, unlike me, doesn't use that trick for such calculating reasons. She just listens.
"I think you're both very frustrated that you don't have more of a relationship with each other", she said carefully.
"I don't even know what I would talk about with him in a normal conversation! What does he talk about when he's just, you know, talking?"
See, he's a great problem-solver, but he tends to treat just about anything I bring him as a problem to be solved. So, after about age 12, I stopped telling him much about the incidental details of my life. And this, in turn, reinforced the notion that I only talk to him when it's serious, so he tends to treat anything I say as serious. We have very little foundation for being able to talk casually.
Later that day, my dad suggested we go out for brunch together, before I took the train back to Philadelphia. It was my mom's doing, I'm sure. The timing was too good.
"I know I'm not good at just listening," he told me. "Even though I know it's true, it still seems alien to me that people want to talk about their problems just to talk. I want to help. I want to do something about it. I'm not good at just empathizing - it doesn't come naturally to me like it does to your mother".
He'd never talked quite like that before. I know he's aware that his zeal to help isn't always well-received - that's been made very clear to him by me and my mom over the years. But he hadn't put his perspective so clearly before.
"I mean, sometimes, you need to show some sense of understanding, or empathy, or something like that before you just solve a problem," I said. "Especially an emotional one. If I come home and say 'I'm worried about failing my comprehensive exams', sometimes the best response isn't to tell me how irrational my fears are. Even if you're correct, telling me so doesn't necessarily make me feel less anxious. Instead, it makes me feel anxious and irrational. Sometimes, you just need to talk through the crazy.
"Besides, you always say you want to help people solve problems, but sometimes you have to show some empathy in order to make someone feel like you're solving the problem together, rather than just having you swoop in and solve the problem for them. I don't think any adult likes being made to feel that way."
That seemed to hit home, apparently. After that, he opened up. We talked about things from my childhood, how proud he is that I'm so much less emotionally awkward than he was at my age, family stories, a hundred-year-old dispute his whole side of the family had about some ancestral money, everything. It was the most freely we've talked in years. On that whole dimension of our relationship - his tendency to treat things like an exercise in problem-solving - has genuinely gotten better.
But I can't help but notice that really, what we were doing was solving a problem: the problem of his tendency to treat things as problems, and my tendency to withdraw as a result. I still wonder, when I return home for the annual family latke party next week, just what he and I will be able to talk about.
I was talking to my mom about this over a bowl of Pho a week ago, when I went back to DC for Thanksgiving. My mom and I don't have this problem. Anyone can talk to her about anything. If my dad is the one who's more likely to understand and deal with something, my mom's the one who's more likely to actually make you feel better after talking. Back in High School, my friends would call my house, and when I picked up, they'd ask to talk to my mom. She's a great listener - I learned my best listening skill from her: whatever someone is telling you, repeat it back to them in your own words, as best as you understand it. In the worst case, they'll correct you if you've misunderstood. On the average case, they feel listened to. In the best case, the person you're talking to will find what you've just said very insightful. That logic, though, is mine. My mom, unlike me, doesn't use that trick for such calculating reasons. She just listens.
"I think you're both very frustrated that you don't have more of a relationship with each other", she said carefully.
"I don't even know what I would talk about with him in a normal conversation! What does he talk about when he's just, you know, talking?"
See, he's a great problem-solver, but he tends to treat just about anything I bring him as a problem to be solved. So, after about age 12, I stopped telling him much about the incidental details of my life. And this, in turn, reinforced the notion that I only talk to him when it's serious, so he tends to treat anything I say as serious. We have very little foundation for being able to talk casually.
Later that day, my dad suggested we go out for brunch together, before I took the train back to Philadelphia. It was my mom's doing, I'm sure. The timing was too good.
"I know I'm not good at just listening," he told me. "Even though I know it's true, it still seems alien to me that people want to talk about their problems just to talk. I want to help. I want to do something about it. I'm not good at just empathizing - it doesn't come naturally to me like it does to your mother".
He'd never talked quite like that before. I know he's aware that his zeal to help isn't always well-received - that's been made very clear to him by me and my mom over the years. But he hadn't put his perspective so clearly before.
"I mean, sometimes, you need to show some sense of understanding, or empathy, or something like that before you just solve a problem," I said. "Especially an emotional one. If I come home and say 'I'm worried about failing my comprehensive exams', sometimes the best response isn't to tell me how irrational my fears are. Even if you're correct, telling me so doesn't necessarily make me feel less anxious. Instead, it makes me feel anxious and irrational. Sometimes, you just need to talk through the crazy.
"Besides, you always say you want to help people solve problems, but sometimes you have to show some empathy in order to make someone feel like you're solving the problem together, rather than just having you swoop in and solve the problem for them. I don't think any adult likes being made to feel that way."
That seemed to hit home, apparently. After that, he opened up. We talked about things from my childhood, how proud he is that I'm so much less emotionally awkward than he was at my age, family stories, a hundred-year-old dispute his whole side of the family had about some ancestral money, everything. It was the most freely we've talked in years. On that whole dimension of our relationship - his tendency to treat things like an exercise in problem-solving - has genuinely gotten better.
But I can't help but notice that really, what we were doing was solving a problem: the problem of his tendency to treat things as problems, and my tendency to withdraw as a result. I still wonder, when I return home for the annual family latke party next week, just what he and I will be able to talk about.