awakenings
I realized today how much my dad loves me. In English class. Reading the poem "My Papa's Waltz"
I realized that all those times that he made me sit in Walts bar while he had a drink really weren't that big of a deal.
He never did any harm to me. He just needed a beer after a long day. He just wanted to see his friends and unwind on his way home from work.
If anything, those hours in that bar taught me more about life and about people than hundreds in classrooms and lecture halls.
I understand blue collar. I understand middle class.
I come to Calvin College and sit in class room of peers who (mostly) have been raised in "good Christian homes" (the kind I always wished for as a kid) and who don't know any alcoholics (but they know how evil they are) and who don't know any father who would "dare" drag his children into a bar every day after school.
Then we all read a poem about a dad who has a buzz and dances his kid around the house, and infer that he's abusing his child and that his wife is depressed.
My response was what?! Where do you read these things? Where does it say that? And they all ramble on about grabbing wrists, mother's look of countenance.. yada yada. They are so removed from this way of life that the instant they see any "roughness" in a father its automatically deemed abuse and alcoholism. So my prof asks what I think of it, and I say... well, I think he's had a bit too much to drink, and wants to play with his son, but maybe handles it a little roughly, and the mother is sighing in the background, but in the end no one gets hurt, and its no big deal. Then he reveals that the writer of this poem is from Saginaw MI, and asks if anyone in the room has a "blue collar" dad.
I'm the only one to raise my hand. (out of about 32 kids)
And I realize, this poem is not so far removed from my own childhood memories.
Sure I hated getting dragged into Walts everyday after school instead of going home and watching Full House.
Sure its a little "rough" on a kid to expose them to alcoholics and pot heads and all other sorts of "rough" old men.
But was I ever harmed? certainly not.
Did my dad ever do anything to compromise my safety (well besides driving me home drunk all the time)? never
As an adult, I can look back on these experiences and chuckle.
I can see that my dad really just wanted to spend time with me, and show me off to his friends.
But instead I let the world, I let DARE class, and I let "good Christian people" convince me that my parents were irresponsible, bad parents who cared more about alcohol than their kids and who didn't deserve my love or respect because they did such "horrible" things to us like drag us into bars and off to parties, and came home drunk all the time.
HOW DARE THEY!!! What a load of bullshit.
It wasn't my dad's actions, or my mom's that convinced me that they didn't care about me. It was these stupid organizations that are looking out for kids "well-being." Instead of thinking that dad's behavior was a bit annoying but kind of funny, I could only look at him as a bad person, a sinner, unloving, uncaring, irresponsible. A wedge was driven between us my whole life and things have never been right since. I've always blamed him.
I always thought he loved me but didn't care about me.
No... he loved me, but just didn't know how to be himself and show me that he loved me.
He didn't know how to relate to me because I was constantly rejecting him. Constantly annoying, embarrassed, disgusted, disapproving, judgmental of him, his ways, his friends, and so forth.
As a kid, sitting in Walts bar, I never felt harmed. I never felt that my dad didn't care about me or was a bad father for taking me in there. No, that didn't happen until I let other people convince me of those ideas.
And then I realized something about blue-collar, middle class folk who sit in the bar every day after work.
They're REAL people.
They're imperfect, and flawed, but aren't the rich golfers in East Grand Rapids?
Doesn't the bible tell us that we all fall short?!
They just don't try to build big mansions and gates and expensive cars to hide behind.
They acknowledge their imperfections and move on.
What a sad life for the others. Always trying to prove your worth, and always pretending to have it all together.
I think that maybe I fared a little luckier after all.
At least I was around real people. At least I know a little more about the world.
At least my dad cared enough to want to spend time with me, instead of hiring nanny after nanny to take care of me until he came home and went to bed.
Is that so bad?
I've decided I'm pretty damn lucky.
I've decided that maybe growing up in Walts bar wasn't so bad after all.
I realized that all those times that he made me sit in Walts bar while he had a drink really weren't that big of a deal.
He never did any harm to me. He just needed a beer after a long day. He just wanted to see his friends and unwind on his way home from work.
If anything, those hours in that bar taught me more about life and about people than hundreds in classrooms and lecture halls.
I understand blue collar. I understand middle class.
I come to Calvin College and sit in class room of peers who (mostly) have been raised in "good Christian homes" (the kind I always wished for as a kid) and who don't know any alcoholics (but they know how evil they are) and who don't know any father who would "dare" drag his children into a bar every day after school.
Then we all read a poem about a dad who has a buzz and dances his kid around the house, and infer that he's abusing his child and that his wife is depressed.
My response was what?! Where do you read these things? Where does it say that? And they all ramble on about grabbing wrists, mother's look of countenance.. yada yada. They are so removed from this way of life that the instant they see any "roughness" in a father its automatically deemed abuse and alcoholism. So my prof asks what I think of it, and I say... well, I think he's had a bit too much to drink, and wants to play with his son, but maybe handles it a little roughly, and the mother is sighing in the background, but in the end no one gets hurt, and its no big deal. Then he reveals that the writer of this poem is from Saginaw MI, and asks if anyone in the room has a "blue collar" dad.
I'm the only one to raise my hand. (out of about 32 kids)
And I realize, this poem is not so far removed from my own childhood memories.
Sure I hated getting dragged into Walts everyday after school instead of going home and watching Full House.
Sure its a little "rough" on a kid to expose them to alcoholics and pot heads and all other sorts of "rough" old men.
But was I ever harmed? certainly not.
Did my dad ever do anything to compromise my safety (well besides driving me home drunk all the time)? never
As an adult, I can look back on these experiences and chuckle.
I can see that my dad really just wanted to spend time with me, and show me off to his friends.
But instead I let the world, I let DARE class, and I let "good Christian people" convince me that my parents were irresponsible, bad parents who cared more about alcohol than their kids and who didn't deserve my love or respect because they did such "horrible" things to us like drag us into bars and off to parties, and came home drunk all the time.
HOW DARE THEY!!! What a load of bullshit.
It wasn't my dad's actions, or my mom's that convinced me that they didn't care about me. It was these stupid organizations that are looking out for kids "well-being." Instead of thinking that dad's behavior was a bit annoying but kind of funny, I could only look at him as a bad person, a sinner, unloving, uncaring, irresponsible. A wedge was driven between us my whole life and things have never been right since. I've always blamed him.
I always thought he loved me but didn't care about me.
No... he loved me, but just didn't know how to be himself and show me that he loved me.
He didn't know how to relate to me because I was constantly rejecting him. Constantly annoying, embarrassed, disgusted, disapproving, judgmental of him, his ways, his friends, and so forth.
As a kid, sitting in Walts bar, I never felt harmed. I never felt that my dad didn't care about me or was a bad father for taking me in there. No, that didn't happen until I let other people convince me of those ideas.
And then I realized something about blue-collar, middle class folk who sit in the bar every day after work.
They're REAL people.
They're imperfect, and flawed, but aren't the rich golfers in East Grand Rapids?
Doesn't the bible tell us that we all fall short?!
They just don't try to build big mansions and gates and expensive cars to hide behind.
They acknowledge their imperfections and move on.
What a sad life for the others. Always trying to prove your worth, and always pretending to have it all together.
I think that maybe I fared a little luckier after all.
At least I was around real people. At least I know a little more about the world.
At least my dad cared enough to want to spend time with me, instead of hiring nanny after nanny to take care of me until he came home and went to bed.
Is that so bad?
I've decided I'm pretty damn lucky.
I've decided that maybe growing up in Walts bar wasn't so bad after all.