Dad died July 9, which seems both like ages ago and just yesterday. About five days after his death, there was an Open House held. It was catered and there were pictures set up in the room where he died. Roughly 100 people mingled and told stories. It was nice. It wasn't a memorial service. Some family members, most notably my sister and her family, were not there. The actual memorial service was going to be held "later."
How much later? Try late October. That's one hell of a delay between death and memorial. Apparently, that's how long it takes to organize around everyone's schedule, and plan what is turning out to be a memorial service of celebrity proportions.
The main purpose for a funeral or memorial service is closure for friends and family. It gives structure to the puzzling void of death and loss, closure to the turmoil of illness; it's a signal that yes, indeed, he really is dead and isn't just on vacation. Ideally, it should be held within a short time following the death; absence has a way of becoming reality, and people's memories are short. Life goes on.
What I'm wondering now, though, while facing a memorial service held at a huge venue, complete with video presentations like a Beverly Hills bar mitzvah, is how effective closure can be in such a spectacle. The guest list, apparently, could run as high as 700 to 1000 people, most of whom didn't know Dad well at all. The actual close friends and family is a very small percentage of the list. Public speaking isn't my forte, and there's no way in hell I'm speaking in front of that many people about such a personal subject.
Plus, there's the law firm's involvement. Before Dad went under for that last big surgery, he made a funny morphine laced statement: "Don't let those fuckers (the firm) give the eulogy." We all laughed; of course we wouldn't let the firm hijack the service. To my knowledge, it was the only request regarding these arrangements Dad ever made. But now the firm is paying for the whole thing, and it has indeed been hijacked. It's a sell out of massive proportions. While I recognize that spending 40 years at one firm does indeed merit some involvement, the idea that the firm began vetoing potential dates infuriated me. Who is this service for, anyway?
Perhaps, given all that I've written on this blog regarding Dad's remarkable split between business and family, public and private, it's only fitting that his service be all about those who knew him least, but got the best side of him. I'm not anticipating any sort of relief from the somewhat numbing depression that's swept over me. I'm hoping it's just par for the course, and over by late October. Perhaps my sister, my mother, my aunt and I will all get together with some of Dad's ashes and hold our own "family" memorial service, just for us, those who knew him solely in that complicated context.
Monday, August 20, 2012
Friday, August 10, 2012
Nature or Nurture: Where Dad Came From
If you wanted a sterling example of the American Dream, you needn't look further than my Dad's side of the family.
His parents met after WWII in their home town of Santa Maria, CA. He was fresh out of the Navy (he was on subs in the Pacific), going to junior college on the G.I. Bill. She was just starting junior college after the horrible shock of her older brother's death, from electrocution, that occurred in North Africa after the war had ended. Since she was just 18 when they married, I assume courtship was brief. My father followed when she was just 19.
They were a typical small town postwar poor young couple. They lived with my great grandparents for a while, which, given my great grandmother's penchant for thinking my grandfather was a loser, couldn't have been easy. After a few years, they managed to buy a small ranch house in town, where my father and aunt grew up.
My grandfather was always in sales, first working in tractor parts, later in tires, until he owned his own small chain of tire stores. He's a prime example of success through hard work, sincere charm, and a good attitude. He was consistently kind, thoughtful, and greatly valued his family. He loved my grandmother; they were indeed a team and married for over 50 years.
My grandmother was the prototypical happy homemaker. She led the Betty Crocker lifestyle, raising kids and taking care of her family pretty much perfectly. On the other hand, she was also a bit of a depressive with a sharp tongue that could really cut my Dad down to size. She was not someone to cross, as many a Santa Maria teacher would come to find out. She was thin and tan, and glamourous in a very natural way. Yet, she also crocheted and knit, canned her own jalapeno jelly, made a plethora of cookies every Christmas. While sometimes I think she was very bored with the whole thing, she considered the home and family her job, and took great pride in holding it all together.
My Dad's childhood, then, was a classic American one. It was small town values, running free through endless farmer's fields (along with endless amounts of pesticide exposure, something I think contributed to his cancer), being poor but upwardly striving, being raised in a very intact and functional family unit. He was always the smartest kid in his school; he was valedictorian but didn't give the speech because he refused to have it "edited" by one of his teachers (he'd won a national speech competition the year before, and felt the teacher wasn't qualified for such a review). He won a basketball scholarship to UCLA, and became the first person in his family to earn a college degree.
My grandparents spent years without money, but by the time my Dad and Mom married, they were doing well. They ended up first remodeling their original house, then building a completely new house in Orcutt and moving there. My grandfather in particular delighted in his financial success, collecting Steuben art glass and indulging in a variety of hobbies. Their new house, build around an enormous great room with cushy carpet and a fireplace big enough to roast a moose, hosted the whole family every Christmas. It was merry there, and wonderfully warm and predictable. They were the ultimate grandparents, providing warmth and structure.
And my sister and I sorely needed that warmth and structure. As it turned out, my Dad was very good at pursuing the money and success part of the American Dream, but considerably less successful in terms of the family. I don't think it was all his fault. My grandparents were very good at their job, but not very good at passing the baton. Their children, my Dad and aunt, were always kids in their eyes, rather unqualified to take over the family duties. I don't think they meant to infantilize my Dad this way, but since I don't think he was naturally inclined toward home and hearth, it made it easier for Dad to never truly step up.
After my parents' divorce, when I was 21, the family scene got even more uneven. Dad got a new girlfriend (who became his second wife years later), she had a daughter from a previous relationship, and they didn't hit it off with my grandparents at all. Admittedly, my family was a tough room. Blood counted for a lot, and outsiders weren't given much trust or credit. Family gatherings became rather divided and uncomfortable. One year at Christmas, my grandmother gifted my Dad two stone garden statues, saying, "These represent your daughters. Put them in your garden, so you'll never forget them." Ouch.
As my Dad grew ever more successful and made tons of money, his lifestyle ratcheted up considerably. My grandparents lived rather modestly, but spent on family dinners. They took the entire family to Hawaii for two weeks for their 50th wedding anniversary. My grandfather bought beautiful custom made jewelry for my grandmother. My father, on the other hand, couldn't stop remodeling the house he'd originally built with my mother; my sister and I termed it the Winchester Mystery House because of the constant construction. While my grandparents were proud of all Dad had achieved, I think they felt betrayed and confused by his rejection of their values.
My grandmother passed away from cancer, my grandfather from pneumonia and grief a few years later. Their deaths signaled the end of the family unit on a lot of levels. Although my Dad would occasionally take everyone to dinner (a feat of gluttony; to watch him order "for the table" made you wonder how an inanimate object could eat that much), or host a dinner at his house, these events were few and far between. Perhaps he liked the idea of family, but the reality and the work involved didn't really thrill him. I ended up hosting a bunch of Christmas celebrations, and they went well. I'd like to think that I had good role models for that in my grandparents.
I think that maybe there's actually a "family" gene that my Dad just didn't possess, and my grandparents' willingness to take over the family duties into perpetuity encouraged Dad's genetic predisposition. He took family for granted; my grandparents made family paramount. Now that Dad is gone, I feel a sense of emptiness and loss in terms of family, but it's nothing compared to how I felt when my grandparents died. Now I feel a real sense of responsibility for the family, its stories, its strange traditions. Somehow, the family baton flew over his head and, I guess, hit me square in mine.
His parents met after WWII in their home town of Santa Maria, CA. He was fresh out of the Navy (he was on subs in the Pacific), going to junior college on the G.I. Bill. She was just starting junior college after the horrible shock of her older brother's death, from electrocution, that occurred in North Africa after the war had ended. Since she was just 18 when they married, I assume courtship was brief. My father followed when she was just 19.
They were a typical small town postwar poor young couple. They lived with my great grandparents for a while, which, given my great grandmother's penchant for thinking my grandfather was a loser, couldn't have been easy. After a few years, they managed to buy a small ranch house in town, where my father and aunt grew up.
My grandfather was always in sales, first working in tractor parts, later in tires, until he owned his own small chain of tire stores. He's a prime example of success through hard work, sincere charm, and a good attitude. He was consistently kind, thoughtful, and greatly valued his family. He loved my grandmother; they were indeed a team and married for over 50 years.
My grandmother was the prototypical happy homemaker. She led the Betty Crocker lifestyle, raising kids and taking care of her family pretty much perfectly. On the other hand, she was also a bit of a depressive with a sharp tongue that could really cut my Dad down to size. She was not someone to cross, as many a Santa Maria teacher would come to find out. She was thin and tan, and glamourous in a very natural way. Yet, she also crocheted and knit, canned her own jalapeno jelly, made a plethora of cookies every Christmas. While sometimes I think she was very bored with the whole thing, she considered the home and family her job, and took great pride in holding it all together.
My Dad's childhood, then, was a classic American one. It was small town values, running free through endless farmer's fields (along with endless amounts of pesticide exposure, something I think contributed to his cancer), being poor but upwardly striving, being raised in a very intact and functional family unit. He was always the smartest kid in his school; he was valedictorian but didn't give the speech because he refused to have it "edited" by one of his teachers (he'd won a national speech competition the year before, and felt the teacher wasn't qualified for such a review). He won a basketball scholarship to UCLA, and became the first person in his family to earn a college degree.
My grandparents spent years without money, but by the time my Dad and Mom married, they were doing well. They ended up first remodeling their original house, then building a completely new house in Orcutt and moving there. My grandfather in particular delighted in his financial success, collecting Steuben art glass and indulging in a variety of hobbies. Their new house, build around an enormous great room with cushy carpet and a fireplace big enough to roast a moose, hosted the whole family every Christmas. It was merry there, and wonderfully warm and predictable. They were the ultimate grandparents, providing warmth and structure.
And my sister and I sorely needed that warmth and structure. As it turned out, my Dad was very good at pursuing the money and success part of the American Dream, but considerably less successful in terms of the family. I don't think it was all his fault. My grandparents were very good at their job, but not very good at passing the baton. Their children, my Dad and aunt, were always kids in their eyes, rather unqualified to take over the family duties. I don't think they meant to infantilize my Dad this way, but since I don't think he was naturally inclined toward home and hearth, it made it easier for Dad to never truly step up.
After my parents' divorce, when I was 21, the family scene got even more uneven. Dad got a new girlfriend (who became his second wife years later), she had a daughter from a previous relationship, and they didn't hit it off with my grandparents at all. Admittedly, my family was a tough room. Blood counted for a lot, and outsiders weren't given much trust or credit. Family gatherings became rather divided and uncomfortable. One year at Christmas, my grandmother gifted my Dad two stone garden statues, saying, "These represent your daughters. Put them in your garden, so you'll never forget them." Ouch.
As my Dad grew ever more successful and made tons of money, his lifestyle ratcheted up considerably. My grandparents lived rather modestly, but spent on family dinners. They took the entire family to Hawaii for two weeks for their 50th wedding anniversary. My grandfather bought beautiful custom made jewelry for my grandmother. My father, on the other hand, couldn't stop remodeling the house he'd originally built with my mother; my sister and I termed it the Winchester Mystery House because of the constant construction. While my grandparents were proud of all Dad had achieved, I think they felt betrayed and confused by his rejection of their values.
My grandmother passed away from cancer, my grandfather from pneumonia and grief a few years later. Their deaths signaled the end of the family unit on a lot of levels. Although my Dad would occasionally take everyone to dinner (a feat of gluttony; to watch him order "for the table" made you wonder how an inanimate object could eat that much), or host a dinner at his house, these events were few and far between. Perhaps he liked the idea of family, but the reality and the work involved didn't really thrill him. I ended up hosting a bunch of Christmas celebrations, and they went well. I'd like to think that I had good role models for that in my grandparents.
I think that maybe there's actually a "family" gene that my Dad just didn't possess, and my grandparents' willingness to take over the family duties into perpetuity encouraged Dad's genetic predisposition. He took family for granted; my grandparents made family paramount. Now that Dad is gone, I feel a sense of emptiness and loss in terms of family, but it's nothing compared to how I felt when my grandparents died. Now I feel a real sense of responsibility for the family, its stories, its strange traditions. Somehow, the family baton flew over his head and, I guess, hit me square in mine.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Dad's Minor Sports Celebrity Persona
My Dad had an achievement filled life, no doubt. A senior partner at a major law firm, a Harvard Law grad, well respected and loved by all his co workers, he was a winner in every superficial way possible. And then there was the basketball.
Dad was a college basketball star. And he was a star not just on any team, but on a UCLA championship team. Under legendary coach John Wooden. Dad's team won three championships with him as guard. He played with the likes of Kareem, Mike Warren and Lucius Allen. Any college basketball fan (and they are legion) knows who my father is and what he did on that team. I never had a PE teacher who didn't recognize my last name, ask if he was my father, and then interrogate me on my sports prowess. I remember one teacher, at a 7th grade parents' night, was reduced to a stammering wreak upon being introduced to my Dad (ok, yes: that was an extreme reaction).
Yet, his basketball years were barely mentioned when I was growing up. I had been there, as a baby, for some of them; my mother first pregnant and then a new mom sitting on the sidelines. I knew he had been drafted to the pros, but left training camp after a short while and went off to law school at Harvard instead. He told my mother that, the moment he got to pro training camp, he knew he wasn't going to be a star. If he couldn't be a star, there was no point in going. I can understand that; the shock of being downgraded in an instant from big college star to slightly too short bench sitter was probably an eye opener. My Dad was a competitor, but he knew when to throw in the towel.
The way his basketball and sports background manifested around the house was in intense sports watching. He would follow a basketball game with such intensity, it's a wonder he didn't have a stroke. Every weekend when he wasn't working was pretty much devoted to sports. He'd make himself some chili or a tuna melt, and settle in to watch a marathon of events. My mother was convinced he'd watch anything; she once found him studying curling, an obscure far northern sport played on ice with big weights and brooms. She thought it was funny, but in a sad way.
Needless to say, my sister and I were not really encouraged to watch with him. He was so intense that, if you asked him something, it might take him three minutes to respond. He didn't have patience when explaining games and strategies; apparently we were supposed to learn such things through familial osmosis. And there was no way to play any sort of game or sport with him. "You throw like a girl," he jeered at me once. Well, I was a girl. And thank god for that, because being a boy would have been really difficult.
It took me years to get over thinking I was bad at sports. Gawky and half blind, I was terrible at racquet sports and anything else involving eye/hand coordination. I could run well, though, and was pretty strong for a skinny girl. My skiing wasn't bad. Later in my life, I became a gym rat, then a Pilates instructor, and now an amateur aerialist. I think the aerial trapeze actually freaked my Dad out a bit, because it was something he honestly couldn't imagine himself doing in any way.
In the last 20 years of his life, my father couldn't play basketball or tennis anymore, because his knees were shot. He ended up becoming a yoga enthusiast, investing in a popular yoga studio in Santa Monica and attending class often. But he was, ironically, competitive about yoga. I was wise enough at this point to stay away from yoga. It was too slow paced for me and I didn't like the scene. But that didn't keep him from asking me if I could get into this or that yoga pose. Of course I could, because I was young and female. The question was, why was he trying to compete with his daughter who didn't even practice yoga? He'd already shown himself to be more competitive, more successful, and more accomplished than his children, but even I knew that age, when it came to physical prowess, mattered.
When I was young, we never saw any of the guys Dad played basketball with at UCLA, but later on once he remarried they appeared on the scene. Dad would host team reunions up at his house. He always had a relationship with "Coach," who was a formidable guy I met several times over the years (the first time I met Wooden, at age 29, he rattled off my Dad's stats to me as if he was still coaching that team). In fact, I didn't speak much with any of the team members until Dad got sick, and then they visited him at home and in the hospital. They were, and are, really lovely guys. The consensus, always, was what a good sport and team player he always was, no matter what ego nonsense was going on with the other players. It was reminiscent of the same things my Dad's co-workers said about him.
Again, it's hard to reconcile the selfless team player with the ultra competitive Dad who used to cheat on board games just so he could win (he ran the bank and stole money in Monopoly, and hung ships over the edge of the board in Battleship with unsinkable results; I actually find that pretty funny). Just a couple years ago he got in a fight with my daughter, then nine, while playing handball. Not liking her take on the rules of the court, he apparently threw the ball into a wall of trashcans and then stormed into the house. My daughter, not intimidated in the slightest, followed him in and, in front of the entire family, asked "Why did you do that?" My Dad had no answer. "Welcome to my childhood," I told my appalled husband.
I only got a real insight into the impact of his basketball years once. Dad told me a story of how, although Wooden hated giving any player the spotlight, in one game he let each of the starting players go onto the court with the second stringers. That way, each star knew all the cheering was just for him. Dad described just how heady the feeling was of having thousands of people cheering for him. It was intoxicating, seductive, wonderful. And it never happened again, at least not on that level. Sometimes I think his raging at televised sports was the frustration of a supposed team player who only got the drug like fix of total adulation once, before having it yanked away.
In the end, I think, the basketball stardom was just one more thing that separated him from his family. It was something none of us could understand. It wasn't something he wanted to explain, and maybe he couldn't really articulate it anyway. But when I think back, to all those weekends of him watching sports and getting angry, it just seems so lonely. It was just him and the game and nothing else at all.
Dad was a college basketball star. And he was a star not just on any team, but on a UCLA championship team. Under legendary coach John Wooden. Dad's team won three championships with him as guard. He played with the likes of Kareem, Mike Warren and Lucius Allen. Any college basketball fan (and they are legion) knows who my father is and what he did on that team. I never had a PE teacher who didn't recognize my last name, ask if he was my father, and then interrogate me on my sports prowess. I remember one teacher, at a 7th grade parents' night, was reduced to a stammering wreak upon being introduced to my Dad (ok, yes: that was an extreme reaction).
Yet, his basketball years were barely mentioned when I was growing up. I had been there, as a baby, for some of them; my mother first pregnant and then a new mom sitting on the sidelines. I knew he had been drafted to the pros, but left training camp after a short while and went off to law school at Harvard instead. He told my mother that, the moment he got to pro training camp, he knew he wasn't going to be a star. If he couldn't be a star, there was no point in going. I can understand that; the shock of being downgraded in an instant from big college star to slightly too short bench sitter was probably an eye opener. My Dad was a competitor, but he knew when to throw in the towel.
The way his basketball and sports background manifested around the house was in intense sports watching. He would follow a basketball game with such intensity, it's a wonder he didn't have a stroke. Every weekend when he wasn't working was pretty much devoted to sports. He'd make himself some chili or a tuna melt, and settle in to watch a marathon of events. My mother was convinced he'd watch anything; she once found him studying curling, an obscure far northern sport played on ice with big weights and brooms. She thought it was funny, but in a sad way.
Needless to say, my sister and I were not really encouraged to watch with him. He was so intense that, if you asked him something, it might take him three minutes to respond. He didn't have patience when explaining games and strategies; apparently we were supposed to learn such things through familial osmosis. And there was no way to play any sort of game or sport with him. "You throw like a girl," he jeered at me once. Well, I was a girl. And thank god for that, because being a boy would have been really difficult.
It took me years to get over thinking I was bad at sports. Gawky and half blind, I was terrible at racquet sports and anything else involving eye/hand coordination. I could run well, though, and was pretty strong for a skinny girl. My skiing wasn't bad. Later in my life, I became a gym rat, then a Pilates instructor, and now an amateur aerialist. I think the aerial trapeze actually freaked my Dad out a bit, because it was something he honestly couldn't imagine himself doing in any way.
In the last 20 years of his life, my father couldn't play basketball or tennis anymore, because his knees were shot. He ended up becoming a yoga enthusiast, investing in a popular yoga studio in Santa Monica and attending class often. But he was, ironically, competitive about yoga. I was wise enough at this point to stay away from yoga. It was too slow paced for me and I didn't like the scene. But that didn't keep him from asking me if I could get into this or that yoga pose. Of course I could, because I was young and female. The question was, why was he trying to compete with his daughter who didn't even practice yoga? He'd already shown himself to be more competitive, more successful, and more accomplished than his children, but even I knew that age, when it came to physical prowess, mattered.
When I was young, we never saw any of the guys Dad played basketball with at UCLA, but later on once he remarried they appeared on the scene. Dad would host team reunions up at his house. He always had a relationship with "Coach," who was a formidable guy I met several times over the years (the first time I met Wooden, at age 29, he rattled off my Dad's stats to me as if he was still coaching that team). In fact, I didn't speak much with any of the team members until Dad got sick, and then they visited him at home and in the hospital. They were, and are, really lovely guys. The consensus, always, was what a good sport and team player he always was, no matter what ego nonsense was going on with the other players. It was reminiscent of the same things my Dad's co-workers said about him.
Again, it's hard to reconcile the selfless team player with the ultra competitive Dad who used to cheat on board games just so he could win (he ran the bank and stole money in Monopoly, and hung ships over the edge of the board in Battleship with unsinkable results; I actually find that pretty funny). Just a couple years ago he got in a fight with my daughter, then nine, while playing handball. Not liking her take on the rules of the court, he apparently threw the ball into a wall of trashcans and then stormed into the house. My daughter, not intimidated in the slightest, followed him in and, in front of the entire family, asked "Why did you do that?" My Dad had no answer. "Welcome to my childhood," I told my appalled husband.
I only got a real insight into the impact of his basketball years once. Dad told me a story of how, although Wooden hated giving any player the spotlight, in one game he let each of the starting players go onto the court with the second stringers. That way, each star knew all the cheering was just for him. Dad described just how heady the feeling was of having thousands of people cheering for him. It was intoxicating, seductive, wonderful. And it never happened again, at least not on that level. Sometimes I think his raging at televised sports was the frustration of a supposed team player who only got the drug like fix of total adulation once, before having it yanked away.
In the end, I think, the basketball stardom was just one more thing that separated him from his family. It was something none of us could understand. It wasn't something he wanted to explain, and maybe he couldn't really articulate it anyway. But when I think back, to all those weekends of him watching sports and getting angry, it just seems so lonely. It was just him and the game and nothing else at all.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
My Split Persona Dad, part 2
As I said in an earlier post, death, at least in my Dad's case, is a powerful public relations machine. The almost unanimous consensus among his friends and co-workers is that Dad was the most diplomatic, generous, kind, helpful, and compassionate person at his firm and in his yoga studio. That's in pretty sharp contrast to my more nuanced view of him as moody, distant, disconnected, sometimes resentful, unpredictable, and bitingly, sophomorically funny.
An anecdote not even from my childhood: while on a "family" ski trip in Colorado. I'm about 25 and able to take care of myself. My stepsister and her cousin, on the other hand, are still kids, maybe around seven or eight. Dad is trying to get them to ski school. Their tiny skis are falling all over the place, the girls are tripping over themselves, and finally one of them falls and starts to cry. My father rolls his eyes, grits his teeth, and says, "I hate being a Dad!"
My stepmother looks horrified, turns to me, and says, "He didn't mean it."
In turn, I look at her with resignation and replied, "Yes, he did."
It's true. He didn't like being a Dad, especially with little kids. All the patience and nurturing he could supply to hysterical law associates at work went out the window when dealing with real children at home. That's just the way he was.
Much, much later, during one of his many hospital stays, he had me and one of his partners by the bed. Dad proceeded to talk about me to the partner as if I wasn't there, "This one, I could never get her to do anything I said."
What sort of bullshit was this? I was 43 with a new marriage and a child. I had often taken his advice, stingily meted out over the years. And why try to humiliate a middle aged child over advice probably ignored 20 years ago? And why in front of his partner, who had the good grace to look uncomfortable.
Perhaps every parent does this, assigning a child a role and then never admitting they've outgrown it; as if keeping the child's emotional development in stasis shields the parent from having to adapt, or even notice change. For years, Dad liked to egg me on. I'll admit it was easy; I'd go for that bait while he amused himself. At some point though, probably in my late 30's, I stopped reacting. Who cared what he thought?
I thought our relationship had evolved, but towards the end of Dad's life I wasn't so sure. Once, when we were alone in the hospital, Dad looked at me sharply and said, "You've changed."
"What do you mean," I said.
"I used to be able to get you going, but I can't anymore. What happened?" He sounded bummed about this, as if I'd denied him some sort of entertainment.
"Everyone has to grow up sometime, Dad," I said in a matter of fact tone. But I was truly shocked. That was the last time we discussed anything about our relationship.
When I listen to non family members talk about my father, it makes me feel sad and a bit robbed. I obviously didn't get the best side of him. Maybe it was easier to give advice to an admiring young associate, who'd really listen to him, instead of a sulky teenaged daughter who looked just like him. Intellectually, I know that my Dad had traits he hated and he probably saw them in me, the kid most like him on every level. I did not feed his ego properly, the way his work associates did. I was challenging and argumentative and, I'm sure, often infuriating. I did not fawn, although my husband has recently told me he's always thought I was very nice to Dad, and he wasn't that nice to me. Perhaps my Dad wasn't the only person stuck in the past.
All of this, I'm sure, will become even more confusing at the eventual memorial service, at which people will give the work side of him ample spin. And I'll have to sit and try to reconcile the man I dealt with, a real mix of good, bad, and confusing, with the image of saintly warrior they're painting. Talk about feeling guilty.
And I haven't even discussed the fact that Dad was kind of famous, a whole other aspect of the split persona. That's next.
An anecdote not even from my childhood: while on a "family" ski trip in Colorado. I'm about 25 and able to take care of myself. My stepsister and her cousin, on the other hand, are still kids, maybe around seven or eight. Dad is trying to get them to ski school. Their tiny skis are falling all over the place, the girls are tripping over themselves, and finally one of them falls and starts to cry. My father rolls his eyes, grits his teeth, and says, "I hate being a Dad!"
My stepmother looks horrified, turns to me, and says, "He didn't mean it."
In turn, I look at her with resignation and replied, "Yes, he did."
It's true. He didn't like being a Dad, especially with little kids. All the patience and nurturing he could supply to hysterical law associates at work went out the window when dealing with real children at home. That's just the way he was.
Much, much later, during one of his many hospital stays, he had me and one of his partners by the bed. Dad proceeded to talk about me to the partner as if I wasn't there, "This one, I could never get her to do anything I said."
What sort of bullshit was this? I was 43 with a new marriage and a child. I had often taken his advice, stingily meted out over the years. And why try to humiliate a middle aged child over advice probably ignored 20 years ago? And why in front of his partner, who had the good grace to look uncomfortable.
Perhaps every parent does this, assigning a child a role and then never admitting they've outgrown it; as if keeping the child's emotional development in stasis shields the parent from having to adapt, or even notice change. For years, Dad liked to egg me on. I'll admit it was easy; I'd go for that bait while he amused himself. At some point though, probably in my late 30's, I stopped reacting. Who cared what he thought?
I thought our relationship had evolved, but towards the end of Dad's life I wasn't so sure. Once, when we were alone in the hospital, Dad looked at me sharply and said, "You've changed."
"What do you mean," I said.
"I used to be able to get you going, but I can't anymore. What happened?" He sounded bummed about this, as if I'd denied him some sort of entertainment.
"Everyone has to grow up sometime, Dad," I said in a matter of fact tone. But I was truly shocked. That was the last time we discussed anything about our relationship.
When I listen to non family members talk about my father, it makes me feel sad and a bit robbed. I obviously didn't get the best side of him. Maybe it was easier to give advice to an admiring young associate, who'd really listen to him, instead of a sulky teenaged daughter who looked just like him. Intellectually, I know that my Dad had traits he hated and he probably saw them in me, the kid most like him on every level. I did not feed his ego properly, the way his work associates did. I was challenging and argumentative and, I'm sure, often infuriating. I did not fawn, although my husband has recently told me he's always thought I was very nice to Dad, and he wasn't that nice to me. Perhaps my Dad wasn't the only person stuck in the past.
All of this, I'm sure, will become even more confusing at the eventual memorial service, at which people will give the work side of him ample spin. And I'll have to sit and try to reconcile the man I dealt with, a real mix of good, bad, and confusing, with the image of saintly warrior they're painting. Talk about feeling guilty.
And I haven't even discussed the fact that Dad was kind of famous, a whole other aspect of the split persona. That's next.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Who Was Dad, Anyway?
I have a number of good friends who have lost their fathers. Their relationships with their fathers have varied: one was the apple of his eye, one was alienated almost completely, one had very mixed emotions. But, none of them had a split between how they experienced their fathers and how the world saw their fathers as individuals.
My Dad, however, was different. He was barely 21 when I was born, still in college, still almost a teenager. Obviously, I wasn't planned and neither was my parents' marriage (although it lasted 21 years, which is pretty long for marrying so young and under duress). Because of both the age difference and, probably, because of the way Dad was wired, he seemed more like a terrifying big brother than a father figure. His rough housing was indeed rough, his game playing was competitive and took no prisoners. He worked non stop throughout my childhood, again partially because he was young and needed to build a career, and partially because that was how his personality worked. He wasn't particularly warm and cuddly when I was a child, although he did seem to enjoy having more adult children and gave good advice and support, when asked.
Compare my experience to the overwhelmingly rapturous praise bestowed upon him by his co-workers and casual acquaintances. He worked at a large law firm and had a party many summers for the firm's summer associates. Young attorneys would approach me, the oldest daughter, to wax poetic about what an amazing mentor and wonderful guy Dad was. "It must be so awesome, to have such a cool dad," one female associate gushed at me. I wasn't sure what to say back, so I anemically agreed. It seemed easier than to try to inappropriately explain that I wasn't sure who the hell she was talking about. And this scene played itself out repeatedly over the years.
Now, after his death, it almost seems like there's a public relations machine at work, one which has no room for subtlety or nuance. To his partners and underlings, he's a hero, a team player, the most beloved person at the firm, the peacemaker, the confidante, the appropriate ladies' charmer. There's no room to perhaps explain that he gave those patient, compassionate, good instincts and efforts to his career, but gave his child (I won't speak for my sister or stepsister here) a considerably different experience. He was often cold, distracted, and emotionally unavailable. He had trouble communicating unconditional love, although I'm sure he did feel it. He was often witheringly dismissive. While he was always financially supportive, he wasn't the emotional booster for his children that he was for his associates at work. That's just the truth.
He was also funny and often outrageous. Although he was known as a true diplomat at work, he was the provocateur at home. His cursing was legion. He had a whimsical side and a penchant for making up hilarious songs. He teased mercilessly, which was only funny if you weren't on the wrong end of the teasing. In fact, his behavior at home was almost the complete opposite of his behavior at work.
So was was Dad, anyway? It's hard to decipher because he seems so split. On the one hand, perhaps he felt comfortable enough at home to make the rest of us feel uncomfortable, something he couldn't afford to do at work. Sort of along the lines of: you're stuck with me, so I can be as badly behaved as I wanna be. But I think that it was also more important to him, as well as easier, to be loved at work by people who had less complex relationships with him. He was, ultimately, the man who spent more time at work, and probably didn't regret it.
Dad's memorial service hasn't happened yet. Although I'm hoping to feel a sense of closure from it, I don't have high hopes. Listening to a bunch of people sing his praises for hours is just a repeat of every encounter I've ever had with his co workers and acquaintances. And I don't think I'm going to speak, because I don't think anyone wants to hear my ultimately loving, but decidedly different view of Dad.
My Dad, however, was different. He was barely 21 when I was born, still in college, still almost a teenager. Obviously, I wasn't planned and neither was my parents' marriage (although it lasted 21 years, which is pretty long for marrying so young and under duress). Because of both the age difference and, probably, because of the way Dad was wired, he seemed more like a terrifying big brother than a father figure. His rough housing was indeed rough, his game playing was competitive and took no prisoners. He worked non stop throughout my childhood, again partially because he was young and needed to build a career, and partially because that was how his personality worked. He wasn't particularly warm and cuddly when I was a child, although he did seem to enjoy having more adult children and gave good advice and support, when asked.
Compare my experience to the overwhelmingly rapturous praise bestowed upon him by his co-workers and casual acquaintances. He worked at a large law firm and had a party many summers for the firm's summer associates. Young attorneys would approach me, the oldest daughter, to wax poetic about what an amazing mentor and wonderful guy Dad was. "It must be so awesome, to have such a cool dad," one female associate gushed at me. I wasn't sure what to say back, so I anemically agreed. It seemed easier than to try to inappropriately explain that I wasn't sure who the hell she was talking about. And this scene played itself out repeatedly over the years.
Now, after his death, it almost seems like there's a public relations machine at work, one which has no room for subtlety or nuance. To his partners and underlings, he's a hero, a team player, the most beloved person at the firm, the peacemaker, the confidante, the appropriate ladies' charmer. There's no room to perhaps explain that he gave those patient, compassionate, good instincts and efforts to his career, but gave his child (I won't speak for my sister or stepsister here) a considerably different experience. He was often cold, distracted, and emotionally unavailable. He had trouble communicating unconditional love, although I'm sure he did feel it. He was often witheringly dismissive. While he was always financially supportive, he wasn't the emotional booster for his children that he was for his associates at work. That's just the truth.
He was also funny and often outrageous. Although he was known as a true diplomat at work, he was the provocateur at home. His cursing was legion. He had a whimsical side and a penchant for making up hilarious songs. He teased mercilessly, which was only funny if you weren't on the wrong end of the teasing. In fact, his behavior at home was almost the complete opposite of his behavior at work.
So was was Dad, anyway? It's hard to decipher because he seems so split. On the one hand, perhaps he felt comfortable enough at home to make the rest of us feel uncomfortable, something he couldn't afford to do at work. Sort of along the lines of: you're stuck with me, so I can be as badly behaved as I wanna be. But I think that it was also more important to him, as well as easier, to be loved at work by people who had less complex relationships with him. He was, ultimately, the man who spent more time at work, and probably didn't regret it.
Dad's memorial service hasn't happened yet. Although I'm hoping to feel a sense of closure from it, I don't have high hopes. Listening to a bunch of people sing his praises for hours is just a repeat of every encounter I've ever had with his co workers and acquaintances. And I don't think I'm going to speak, because I don't think anyone wants to hear my ultimately loving, but decidedly different view of Dad.
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