My Old Man (grammar checked!)

I first heard that song when things were still uneasy between my father and I, and if there's one thing Emerson Hart does well, it's capture sentiment and emotion in song.  It always feels transparent, exposed, but not quite visceral, when he writes a song.  I felt this song, I still feel it, if only via empathy and memories of the ache it evoked...


My earthly father, he was my hero as a small child, the source of so much worry as I grew from a child into an adolescent, the source of frustration as a teen, and challenging introspection as a young adult.  For his occupation he put himself in the line of fire every night, as one of the most resented public servants, a Police Officer.  Before my birth he'd already endured the bitter pill that came with being a young Vietnam veteran.  By the time I was self-aware, and aware of the people around me, my father was a combat engineer, a reservist, and would occasionally go abroad to work on projects in places like Germany, Honduras, and Panama.  I seldom feared for his well being on those trips, because, though the Cold War was on, to my knowledge US engagement in heated military conflicts was at a lull.  It was waiting nights for him to make it home safe from his duties as a Policeman night in and night out that put me in the worst states of mind.

If death came into the world through a man, death came into my life through my Father's father.  He died when I was in 2nd grade.  My father brought us into my parents bedroom to tell us, I can't remember if he cried, but remember thinking that he should.  I think we children did, but at best my Paternal Grandfather was an Enigma, a tobacco chewing man of few words who scrubbed my face like he was stripping paint off old furniture.  I remember it being February, the funeral being on a dreary day, lots of long coats.  I don't remember being at Jefferson Barracks, but that's where he was interned.  At that age I'm sure all Cemeteries looked alike to me.  I didn't know he had brothers, nor did I know they, or my Maternal Grandfather were also interned at Jefferson Barracks.  In a odd twist of fate, for his last 10 years of employment as part of the US Military my father was Director of Funeral Honors at Jefferson Barracks.

Back to past...  The first crack in the impenetrable dam of emotion my Father maintained came about a year after he and my mother split, when I asked him why he and my mother got divorced.  I distinctly remember the weight of his words when he said "Your mother said she didn't love me anymore."  It hit me like a ton of bricks and my heart sunk like a stone.  I am so far removed from that feeling now, so detached, but it rocked me then, and I will never forget.

Just about the time my father was retiring from the police force, or just after, he was diagnosed with Diabetes.  It was a bit of a shock given my father was a fitness buff, an avid cardio guy.  He was near the age I am now, and I'm mindful of all the signs of aging he began to display that I took notice of over the passage of those years.  He also began talking about his own mortality often, and after being so worried about his being in harm's way, to have him invoke thoughts of his death after he had finally escaped the Police Force intact was a cruel twist of fate.  My response, along with the onset of puberty, was to begin to feel less empathy towards my father and more alienation.  The political climate associated with urban youth culture and hip hop helped me craft out an evolved militancy that embraced the Gung-Ho rambunctiousness that came with seeing my father as G. I. Joe incarnate, and the political unrest of the Civil Rights movement revisited.  My father's own overly assertive inquisitions about my personal affairs, what little of them there were, and lack of disclosure about his own, put distance between us and allowed me to actualize in my own way, apart from him, but not in spite of him.  It gave me a chance to get over my bias towards him and against my mother.  The fact that she seemed to start dating before he did played a large role in my attitude.  Most of my resentment of my father coincided with my awareness of his relationships with women other than my mother. They needed to move on, but my existence and attitude were an anchor to their past, and I had to acknowledge it before I could get over it, before I could love them.

Every expression of pride my father expressed to people about whatever minor accomplishment I'd achieved  embarrassed me thoroughly, more so when he seemed to take credit for my successes.  The reality is that through joint custody he had me every other weekend at best, and he often worked weekends, so, though he fed me, had me do housework, and we'd catch a movie, a ball game, or play catch, but we didn't talk much about anything.  A lot of my personal convictions emerged as reactions to my peeves regarding his personality quirks.  There were other significant influences on me, peers and adults who would offer inspiration, advice, and introspection.  Ultimately it took me confronting my own mortality via a Dr.'s fear I might have Marfan's Syndrome, and undergoing those tests, and not long after, and totally unrelated, foot surgery, followed by the death of my elder cousin Martez, who was a hero and rival all once, to turn my life on its head, and drive me to pursue absolution through faith.  I matured a lot, but I wasn't yet mature.  In the span of 3 years I lost 3 people I'd called friends who were all near my age, and really started thinking "deeply" about things.  I'd started to see my parents as people, learning to appreciate who they were (more so my mother, who played the role of negotiator among her siblings and confidant to her friends often during that time). I also had my nieces Andreanna and Jammie that I looked out for, changing my role from self-absorbed kid to Uncle.  This helped me understand Fatherhood a lot better.

Once I'd gone away to college my view of my family continued to evolve, and my empathy towards them improved the more I talked to my mother, my eldest sister, and eventually my Grandmother, Great Grand Mother, and Uncle, who all offered more insight into my father's upbringing than he'd ever shared or I could have ever hoped to know.  He was finally given the opportunity, the grace, that I'd extended my mother many years prior, having known some of the details of her childhood and adolescence since I was a child.  At that point my fears about my parents mortality were curbed a bit.  Andreanna's death would break our hearts, and in my case, drive me to reevaluate the nature of familial bonds and what it means to love family.  Not long after that my Father would be faced with a number of challenges, of the professional and personal variety.  He'd faced health scares that hospitalized him, his mother passed away, he remarried, and was diagnosed with Prostate Cancer all in the span of 3 years.

At the conclusion of all those events I returned home from Truman State in Kirksville, thinking more of my father as a human being, a friend. Our relationship reflected that with the confidence he would show in me when he was troubled, at our ability to disagree and argue, but reel it in in the end and maintain a sense of respect and appreciation of one another.  When I would hear people criticize him I would jump up to defend him, something I never did in the past.  When I hear people deride public servants in general and even use the word Cop instead of Police, it bothers me, because I KNOW there are Police Officers who are righteous in their efforts.  As I see him sort out the state of the world, adjust to aging, the heavy weight of mortality bearing down on him as he loses friends & peers, my own inability to embrace the dread and pain of fearing losing him as a child and adolescent stands out all the more.

My relationship with my father encompasses all the depth and gravity of life that I can imagine broaching in thought or conversation.  He's earned my respect as a man, and taught me a lot about being decent, generous, respectful, righteous, humble, and honorable, among other things.  He's far from perfect, but he's my father, and without a doubt, I am aware of his love, and for that reason, I have always trusted that he's had my best interest at heart at times when I question the influence and intention of the people around me.  I realize how much of a blessing that is, what a relief it is to not feel the desire to live my life out in jest of him or his values.  I benefit from not having to live out the pains he endured, yet be able to embrace the wisdom he garnered.  As he has mellowed and gained more perspective into views other than the ones he was predisposed to or exposed to, we've grown more alike in our world views in some areas, and as I got to know his friends and confide in them, I found that we were like-minded, kindred spirits, and they were simply more apt to express it than he was.

I could go on about the evolution of my relationship with my father, and how it pertains to so many other facets of my life, my identity, and how I relate to other people based on how they unknowingly judge who he was and is without even knowing it, but I'll give it a rest for now, but only for now.