“It doesn’t matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.” -Anne Sexton
I woke up from a nap earlier and had a very bewildering thought. It’s not a new thought, by any means, but it’s bewildering all the same… My dad died shortly after I turned thirteen. Eighteen days after, to be precise. I remember various things that he and I did… and I know he loved me very much. But I don’t remember anything about HIM, specifically. I remember what he looked like, for the most part, without having to look at a picture. I remember my mom comparing our school photos from when he and I were both in seventh grade… the resemblance was uncanny. I know I exhibit a number of his physical attirbutes, movements, et cetera… and I know a bit of what happened to him when he was younger.
The fact remains that I remember very little about who he was. I didn’t realize until after he died that he was an on-again, off-again alcoholic. When things were good, he was good. We went to church, we had a good time for the most part. When things got rough, I guess he went back to smoking (i.e., after my parents got divorced) and drinking. We still went to church, but I didn’t see him enough… or pay enough attention, I guess would be a better illustration, to see the difference. He’d been seeing this woman shortly before he died, but they broke up. I hadn’t met her, but I knew she had a young son… the kid ripped the rear view mirror down from the windshield in my dad’s truck LOL What a funny thing to remember. I don’t even recall the girl’s name… Rachel, maybe? Not that it matters now, that was over eight years ago. I wish I would have at least seen her face, though.
I hated that truck, for anyone who had any question about it. Partly, it was because the truck itself was old and gross… or I thought so, anyway. It was a mid-70’s Ford, canary yellow… my dad painted the hood a flat black, “to decrease glare from the sun” he said (or something close to it). It was so naked on the inside… no lush interior to relax in, no reason to overlook the rust spots on the exterior. Something felt Off… yeah, with a capital O… about it.
I was in middle school, and appearance was everything. I’m not stupid, I know I didn’t come from money… I didn’t have a lot then, and I don’t now. I’m not poor, nor was I then… but I would’ve rather ridden in his work truck — which was more or less against the rules — than that big yellow beast. Every time I got into the passenger seat, I wanted to melt into the floor board. And I felt bad, too… because it was a vehicle. And I should feel privileged, because there are people who didn’t even have that luxury. I felt terrible about hating that truck.
He was in that truck when he died.
I still have no idea whether or not he was driving. All I know is that he died during surgery… the guy he was with died at the scene, and the kid they hit died a few days later in the hospital.
I cried at the funeral, and when I think about it I get kinda sad… but I never really THOUGHT about it. I kind of cordoned off that part of my life and moved on. I get those Lion King moments every so often, at pivotal points in my life… like the part where Rafiki takes Simba to the little grove thing and there are flowers all around, and you just KNOW Mufasa’s there, watching everything that’s going on. I got that feeling during the typical movie-scene, tear-jerker moments… my performances in the 8th grade musical… and at graduation… and I’m sure I’ll have a couple more of them at the expected tear-jerker moments yet to come (wedding, baby, etc.). I also get them during the hard times, every so often… like when I fight with my boyfriend, or a long time ago when I was dating someone I definitely shouldn’t have been. I always get the “If my dad were around now, this guy would be toast for treating me like that” feeling, but part of me wonders if there was really anything he could do, hypothetically, if he were here… or am I just romanticizing the fact that I have a dead father who cared a lot about me while he was alive?
I hate not knowing about my dad… and if I could do one thing over in my life, I would go against my natural teenage tendency to despise being around my parents and cherish the time I had with him. He wasn’t perfect, but neither am I.
It’s a classic case of “If I had known then what I know now…” and it sucks. Incredibly.
What’s more, though, is that I don’t think I could ask my mom about him… or ask his dad, for that matter. I don’t want to bring up sore subjects for my mom… even though she pretty much fell apart when he died, and I felt like I was her rock, of sorts. I’m not blaming her reaction on me not being able to grieve properly, but I think I’m either nuts and don’t process grief like normal people do… or the situation demanded me to react a certain way, and that part of my reaction was cut off by default. I didn’t really cry because my aunt died either… that was mostly because she’d been on a downward spiral for some time (cancer) and it was good to know she didn’t have to suffer any more. I wasn’t sad because she was gone, I was sad because my mom was sad. I hate being sensitive to other people’s emotions like that.
I also don’t talk to my grandpa enough to just show up and be like “So tell me about my dad. Why were you such a dick to him when he was younger?” All of that history has to deal with aspects of my grandfather that I, technically, have no idea exist. Superficially, I expect that the era called for certain behaviors… to an extent… and his past (which I know relatively nothing about) probably had something to do with it. I should, though, sometime. Just take a drive down there and have him tell me stories.
I am so cut off from my family, and it’s taken me this long to acknowledge it. I’m more wrapped up in myself than I thought.
Who’d have thought a dream about someone that I knew wasn’t my dad, but at the same time was, would put me here?
