Father and Son

Summer, 1997

I've never really understood my father. He's a complicated person. His emotional scars are numerous and violently exposed. Like all troubled souls those scars run very deep indeed, if I'm anyone to judge.

We've never seen eye to eye. I dismissed him at an early age as the example of everything I didn't want to be; crude, loud, aggressive, and extremely judgemental. Harsh, almost savagely vengeful. Unforgiveably right-wing. Full of undirected, self-consuming anger.

He seemed to be the very embodiment of the worst kind of angry racism, sexism, homophobia, general intolerance and arbitrary discrimination that makes for good reactionary politics. That others, including almost everyone we knew, didn't agree with him he put down to stupidity or blindness. In his own children, of course, it was "communist" teachers (most of whom, as I recall, were relatively conservative).

I didn't have an easy adolescence. Teenagers are trying on any family, but in ours, my increasingly confrontational relationship with my father quickly degenerated into the apocalyptic. He sensed my thinly disguised contempt and responded by constantly humiliating me. I was little better; a self-absorbed, arrogant and naive child.

I remember a different man. A proud father with his young son, snow-forts in long winters, camping, stories late into the night. And it's not just memories. There are countless photographs to prove this man existed. And he's still there, as his reaching eyes often show, though his tongue remains frustratingly still.

So what happened? I've no idea. If I knew, I'd be the greatest pop-psychology guru on the lecture circuit. Howl-in-the-woods men's groups would have the answers to their most frequently asked questions.

But once there was some distance between us, I began to see more of the man and less of the father-tyrant I thought I knew.

He held down two gruelling jobs for many years. He needed grim determination to remain sane most of the time. Alcohol, naturally, was brutally destructive and a major source of distemper.

His own childhood was the epitome of the hypocrisy in family values "golden age" crypto-speak. His mother was beaten to death in front of her children by his alcoholic, abusive father. There were the usual allegations about the local minister and his young flock. Simmering racial and ethnic tensions, the grinding poverty of rural Canada and a host of other unfortunate realities completed the dour picture for me. All of these were, apparently, an intrinsic, unspoken part of life in Canada not very long ago. People like my father were forced to shut up and survive.

Which, to his credit, he did. In fact, the more I know him, the more I find that I can respect. And I think more often of the other father, the one in the photographs and the carefully nursed pleasant memories. I've discovered that a surprisingly large part of me has wanted to make peace and reach out for as long as I can remember.

But, damn it, I've run out of time.

As I write this, my late middle-aged father lies dying of cancer in the hospital, reduced to the awful state of one who needs support but can't properly accept it. Thank God at least for those "communists" who created medicare, or he'd be long dead.

He's terrified. He doesn't want to die. He's as tenacious as it's possible to be. There's a certain nobility to that; he stares death in the face every moment, and I don't think he's flinched yet. His shaved head and withered form notwithstanding, this man will not go easily, and good for him.

I kick myself each and every day for not building on the fragile understanding we developed over the last few years, when I was no longer constantly in his face. For not learning more, for being more accomodating and not so judgemental. For being so self-absorbed and critical that I forfeited what right I had to be bitter.

During the few weeks he was home, I made several uncomfortable pilgrimages to visit my parents. I'll never forget the first real conversation I had with him, even though his speech had deteriorated to a point where speaking at all was difficult. To be honest, we didn't say much. He's rarely shown great interest in what I do, but he made a conscious and excruciating effort to reach out. We smiled a lot. If I wasn't imagining things I think we communicated, as best as two adults with almost no common interests can manage.

Wait, no, we do have at least one common interest. He's my father, and I'm his son.

Letting go of the bitterness is hard, and takes a lot of time, but I've managed to shrug away enough of it to admit a few things to myself. That, in many ways, he and I are similar. We're both direct. We're both forward. And we're both as stubborn as grazing camels. And I might finally be able to take solace in that we've been slowly but surely building a bridge.

Resentment and anger are easy. People cultivate those parasites with superhuman ease. But regret, regret lies on you like an unshakeable weight, subtle and undeniable, an ever-present background theme. If I'm not careful, soon I'll have traded opportunity for resentment, and resentment for regret.