on another fathers' day...
And so, come Christmastime, three years will have passed since the last time I saw my father...
In some measure that's astounding, if not completely alarming. There's no real explanation for it either. Granted, beginning in the fall of 2003 I've lived considerably farther away, but I've been home every winter since, leaving us ample time to meet and catch up. Our relatively proper semblance of a relationship via telephone notwithstanding, my father has, and may always be one of my life's greatest mysteries.
So, for my own indulgence, I'll try to recount here a variety of impressions involving my interations with him over the past twenty-three years.
1-In the years before I started elementary school, I have vague memories of my father riding into town in his tan Ford Explorer, picking me up from my mother's and taking me to Terrill hills, where my grandparents owned a little yellow house with a porch and pool. These weekend-long visits involved swimming, taking walks through the neighborhood, and, more often than not, a jaunt to North Star Mall. Aside from the fact that these trips almost always resulted in me receiving a new pair of sneakers, I haven't the faintest recollection what else we did while there. I also can picture quite clearly my father's morning routine: Awake before dawn, wearing a pressed, white oxford, shorts and leather driving shoes, he'd sit in the kitchen's stale orange light, drinking coffee and pouring over the New York Times. I don't remember at all what we'd talk about back then, nor do I recall how else we'd fill our days. To me, still early in my youth, my father was something of a stranger, a towering giant of a man who wore a cowboy hat while driving, and seemed mystified by the fact that I did not automatically tuck in my shirt before being seated at the dinner table.
2-By the time middle school came around, I felt somewhat comfortable with my father, or at least the idea of him. Over the course of the preceding five years there had been a few bad visits and at least two terrible trips to the coast, but I was older and smarter and could basically hold my own in conversations with him. Knowing that it would impress him, I began playing football in the seventh grade, and, to his credit, he came to every single game that year. I should note that at this point in my life I was already well on my way to being morbidly obese (a subject which garnered his disapproval) and possessed little to no athletic prowess. One game in particular stands out in my mind: I was on defense, and the specific play called for me to cross the length of the field, ideally to prevent the opposing team's running back from gaining significant yardage. While sprinting toward whichever sideline had been specified, I caught sight of my father, standing tall and looking directly at me. "That-a-boy, Will Torrey," he called, and the sound of his voice stopped me dead in my tracks. I don't know what happened afterwards, but I remember being embarrassed and asking myself, "Why did you stop? What the hell is the matter with you?"
3-For a number of reasons, most notably the fact that I was embracing the role of an angst-ridden teen, my high school years marked a bad spell for my father and me. Throughout puberty I'd learned to resent him, and the decisions I'd made weren't conducive to earning his respect. I'd quit football, gained more weight, wasn't trying my hardest in school and, most importantly, was becoming a young man who was obviously not giving his all. Though he never said anything about it explicitly, this sort of half-assed lifestyle wasn't going to cut it. He began to visit less and less, until it got to the point where I might see him once or twice a year. After years of hearing that I'd inherit his Explorer, I remember him saying that turning sixteen didn't entitle me to a car, which, thanks to growing up in San Antonio's wealthiest school district, was exactly the opposite of how I felt at the time. As high school went on I became very popular, acted in a series of plays, and ultimately was elected homecoming king. When I told him of the latter, he was more shocked than pleasantly surprised, as if the school had done it as a prank. For whatever reason, I'm quite sure that, until college, my father subscribed to the unfounded assumption that I was some pathetic homebody, who feared social situations and was by and large friendless. When the time came for graduation, he very matter-of-factly told me that he saw no point of attending, despite the fact that I was one of only four students to give a speech. Ultimately, at the insistence of my mother and my paternal aunt and uncle, he came and gave me a pat on the back. Before leaving for LSU, he asked me to make the drive and visit him for a "serious talk," which, for the most part, involved him telling me of his own social struggles in college. I remember this for two reasons: first, it was the only time that he'd ever seemed in any way vulnerable to me; second, because it was the only time in my life that he'd sat me down specifically to advise me as his son.
4-In college I quickly appreciated and feared the fact that, because he was signing my tuition checks, I was for the first time exclusively under his control. I knew that the only way to make things work was to never get arrested and to always make the best grades possible, both goals that I managed to accomplish. By making the Dean's list both semesters of my first year, I had earned his respect and was rewarded with kind words and too much money. I also managed to drop upwards of 100 pounds that year, which, though it's a harder subject to discuss, also improved our relationship tremendously. It was as though I'd literally been reborn into the successful, thin son he'd always expected, and since 2004 we've spoken with noticeably higher levels of candor and friendliness. Because I continued to do well and even won a major scholarship, he twice sent me to Europe and kept my pockets lined with more than enough spending money. Though the details of my four years at LSU have been heavily censored in our conversations, he is genuinely proud of my accomplishments there, both social and academic. His absence at my graduation came as no surprise to me, but still hurt my feelings. He says he is happy for my success and pleased that I'm "following my dreams," though I don't know if he'd feel the same way if grad school cost money.
Aside from my personal interactions with him over the course of my life as his son, here are the things that I understand about my father: I know he was born in Chicago, went to elementary school in Virginia, spent his teens in Taiwan, went to high school on a military base in West Texas, graduated from Trinity University in 1969, backpacked through Europe at least two times, climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro, briefly pursued an M.A. in history at KU, dropped out, joined the army, lived in Germany, became an Airborne Ranger, lived in Japan, did not fight in Vietnam, went to law school on the GI bill, became a JD in 1976, married my mother in 1982, was divorced in 1987, remarried once (c. 1997), divorced again (c. 2004), and has spent the better part of the past twenty-five years practicing law all over South and West Texas.
I know he is an avid reader, and most enjoys literary nonfiction, "The New Yorker," and The New York Times, which he reads cover-to-cover every single day. He runs often and is likely among the top 5% of healthy people in his age group--he is sixty-one. He does not drink, doesn't smoke, doesn't watch movies, never travels or takes vacations. He dresses in the finest clothes. He votes democrat, and is an inch taller than I am. Our hair and eyes are exactly the same color, and we have the same cross-armed manner of standing at ease. I know that as an attorney for the state of Texas he has sent men to their deaths. He is financially successful, but is by no means showy with his money.
I do not know if he believes in God, or love.
I know that the last time we saw one another, he hugged me hard and said that I was son who'd make any father proud.
I know that I don't hate my dad--in fact, for the most part, I love and respect him. But I do not want his life, and the older I get, the more I fear that's exactly what I stand to inherit.
Wow. Enough's enough. Happy fathers' day to all.
In some measure that's astounding, if not completely alarming. There's no real explanation for it either. Granted, beginning in the fall of 2003 I've lived considerably farther away, but I've been home every winter since, leaving us ample time to meet and catch up. Our relatively proper semblance of a relationship via telephone notwithstanding, my father has, and may always be one of my life's greatest mysteries.
So, for my own indulgence, I'll try to recount here a variety of impressions involving my interations with him over the past twenty-three years.
1-In the years before I started elementary school, I have vague memories of my father riding into town in his tan Ford Explorer, picking me up from my mother's and taking me to Terrill hills, where my grandparents owned a little yellow house with a porch and pool. These weekend-long visits involved swimming, taking walks through the neighborhood, and, more often than not, a jaunt to North Star Mall. Aside from the fact that these trips almost always resulted in me receiving a new pair of sneakers, I haven't the faintest recollection what else we did while there. I also can picture quite clearly my father's morning routine: Awake before dawn, wearing a pressed, white oxford, shorts and leather driving shoes, he'd sit in the kitchen's stale orange light, drinking coffee and pouring over the New York Times. I don't remember at all what we'd talk about back then, nor do I recall how else we'd fill our days. To me, still early in my youth, my father was something of a stranger, a towering giant of a man who wore a cowboy hat while driving, and seemed mystified by the fact that I did not automatically tuck in my shirt before being seated at the dinner table.
2-By the time middle school came around, I felt somewhat comfortable with my father, or at least the idea of him. Over the course of the preceding five years there had been a few bad visits and at least two terrible trips to the coast, but I was older and smarter and could basically hold my own in conversations with him. Knowing that it would impress him, I began playing football in the seventh grade, and, to his credit, he came to every single game that year. I should note that at this point in my life I was already well on my way to being morbidly obese (a subject which garnered his disapproval) and possessed little to no athletic prowess. One game in particular stands out in my mind: I was on defense, and the specific play called for me to cross the length of the field, ideally to prevent the opposing team's running back from gaining significant yardage. While sprinting toward whichever sideline had been specified, I caught sight of my father, standing tall and looking directly at me. "That-a-boy, Will Torrey," he called, and the sound of his voice stopped me dead in my tracks. I don't know what happened afterwards, but I remember being embarrassed and asking myself, "Why did you stop? What the hell is the matter with you?"
3-For a number of reasons, most notably the fact that I was embracing the role of an angst-ridden teen, my high school years marked a bad spell for my father and me. Throughout puberty I'd learned to resent him, and the decisions I'd made weren't conducive to earning his respect. I'd quit football, gained more weight, wasn't trying my hardest in school and, most importantly, was becoming a young man who was obviously not giving his all. Though he never said anything about it explicitly, this sort of half-assed lifestyle wasn't going to cut it. He began to visit less and less, until it got to the point where I might see him once or twice a year. After years of hearing that I'd inherit his Explorer, I remember him saying that turning sixteen didn't entitle me to a car, which, thanks to growing up in San Antonio's wealthiest school district, was exactly the opposite of how I felt at the time. As high school went on I became very popular, acted in a series of plays, and ultimately was elected homecoming king. When I told him of the latter, he was more shocked than pleasantly surprised, as if the school had done it as a prank. For whatever reason, I'm quite sure that, until college, my father subscribed to the unfounded assumption that I was some pathetic homebody, who feared social situations and was by and large friendless. When the time came for graduation, he very matter-of-factly told me that he saw no point of attending, despite the fact that I was one of only four students to give a speech. Ultimately, at the insistence of my mother and my paternal aunt and uncle, he came and gave me a pat on the back. Before leaving for LSU, he asked me to make the drive and visit him for a "serious talk," which, for the most part, involved him telling me of his own social struggles in college. I remember this for two reasons: first, it was the only time that he'd ever seemed in any way vulnerable to me; second, because it was the only time in my life that he'd sat me down specifically to advise me as his son.
4-In college I quickly appreciated and feared the fact that, because he was signing my tuition checks, I was for the first time exclusively under his control. I knew that the only way to make things work was to never get arrested and to always make the best grades possible, both goals that I managed to accomplish. By making the Dean's list both semesters of my first year, I had earned his respect and was rewarded with kind words and too much money. I also managed to drop upwards of 100 pounds that year, which, though it's a harder subject to discuss, also improved our relationship tremendously. It was as though I'd literally been reborn into the successful, thin son he'd always expected, and since 2004 we've spoken with noticeably higher levels of candor and friendliness. Because I continued to do well and even won a major scholarship, he twice sent me to Europe and kept my pockets lined with more than enough spending money. Though the details of my four years at LSU have been heavily censored in our conversations, he is genuinely proud of my accomplishments there, both social and academic. His absence at my graduation came as no surprise to me, but still hurt my feelings. He says he is happy for my success and pleased that I'm "following my dreams," though I don't know if he'd feel the same way if grad school cost money.
Aside from my personal interactions with him over the course of my life as his son, here are the things that I understand about my father: I know he was born in Chicago, went to elementary school in Virginia, spent his teens in Taiwan, went to high school on a military base in West Texas, graduated from Trinity University in 1969, backpacked through Europe at least two times, climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro, briefly pursued an M.A. in history at KU, dropped out, joined the army, lived in Germany, became an Airborne Ranger, lived in Japan, did not fight in Vietnam, went to law school on the GI bill, became a JD in 1976, married my mother in 1982, was divorced in 1987, remarried once (c. 1997), divorced again (c. 2004), and has spent the better part of the past twenty-five years practicing law all over South and West Texas.
I know he is an avid reader, and most enjoys literary nonfiction, "The New Yorker," and The New York Times, which he reads cover-to-cover every single day. He runs often and is likely among the top 5% of healthy people in his age group--he is sixty-one. He does not drink, doesn't smoke, doesn't watch movies, never travels or takes vacations. He dresses in the finest clothes. He votes democrat, and is an inch taller than I am. Our hair and eyes are exactly the same color, and we have the same cross-armed manner of standing at ease. I know that as an attorney for the state of Texas he has sent men to their deaths. He is financially successful, but is by no means showy with his money.
I do not know if he believes in God, or love.
I know that the last time we saw one another, he hugged me hard and said that I was son who'd make any father proud.
I know that I don't hate my dad--in fact, for the most part, I love and respect him. But I do not want his life, and the older I get, the more I fear that's exactly what I stand to inherit.
Wow. Enough's enough. Happy fathers' day to all.