HALLY: [Great pain.] I love him, Sam.
SAM: I know you do. That's why I tried to stop you from saying these things about him. It would have been so simple if you could have just despised him for being a weak man. But he's your father. You love him and you're ashamed of him.
The above cutting is from Athol Fugard's most well-known play, "MASTER HAROLD ... and the boys," generally a play subversively admonishing the practice of apartheid and its bled-through aftereffects. Yet, another theme that the play contains is that of fathers and sons, and how often a son's true father is not one that shares his blood.
The above photo is from the televised and highly acclaimed production of Death of a Salesman, starring Dustin Hoffman as Willy, and John Malkovich as Biff. Ne'er existed a better depiction of a son discovering the truth about a father once seen as a paragon. Willy was a man infatuate with idealism, teased by the acquisition of a dream he would never achieve. Even though Arthur Miller wrote Willy so directly and starkly, it still remains debatable whether or not Willy's downfall was a product of his own actions or of a society full of institutions designed to crush men's souls. Despite the aspirations of his father, Biff saw that his father never amounted to anything. Biff also had the image of his father the god decay when, in his youth, he surprised his father while Willy was on the road in Boston. He walked in on his father enacting one of many trysts with a mistress. Thus, the venom was in the wound, and would slowly decay their relationship.
In such a way, I am like Biff. While I did not witness my father in the physical act of love with a woman besides my mother, I have witnessed him arguing with a visibly despondent woman, in the throes of rejection, that was his one-time lover. But in regards to my similarity to Biff, as a child, I believed my father was a hero, simply because he was my father. As I grew older, I came to realize just how human - hence, prone to weakness - he was.
This past Friday, I received a call from Washington, KS. As I was at work, I could not take the call. My father (like Willy) is a travelling salesman; his territory is literally the state of Kansas. Making the quick correlation between these two pieces of data, I assumed that a scenario that I've played out many times had finally come to light: I was getting the call that my father had died, and someone needed his next of kin to come identify the body. I've been preparing for this for years, so that when the call actually came, I could cauterize an old wound, one left somewhat agape and oozing since my epiphany that my father was not the father-god I wanted him to be.
This was not the case, however close it may have been. The message said, "Aaron, this is *** from Washington County Hospital in Washington, Kansas. Your father has had an aneurysm, and is being taken to Lincoln [Nebraska] for treatment. Uh ... call me back." Flashes of my father having suffered a stroke, and therefore being forevermore incapacitated sailed through my mind. The last thing I'd want is for him to suffer. It turns out that it was an aortic aneurysm (some training on bedside manner is certainly due at Washington County Hospital in Kansas), which was easily fixed by placing a stint. He is currently convalescing, and should be discharged within the next few days.
Since Friday, I have maintained somewhat frequent contact with him, his nursing staff, and his physicians; somewhat out of concern, somewhat out of integrity. After all, my children and I represent the last real blood ties the man has on the earth ... that I know about. Years of adultery may prove otherwise (I have also imagined the scenario in which I am contacted by a half-sibling that wants to "catch up" with big brother). But, in the wake of his mother's death this January, he has no one that will be concerned for him. He has two leeches that live with him at his home in Bucklin, Kansas, that couldn't be bothered to have contact with the outside world, and thus couldn't actually be concerned that their meal ticket may be dying.
I guess I felt some sort of responsibility to fill that void. Perhaps out of guilt, but I can't imagine why I should feel any sort of guilt. It's become apparent to me that I have no priority in my father's life. In fact, had he not been a grandfather, he would have almost no reason to visit me. He is not interested in what I say, do, think, or feel.
I can prove this:
- When I was 21, and I visited him in 2001 over my Christmas Break, I required emergency surgery for a ruptured appendix. I required a night in the ICU. While he was working for an insurance company at the time, and knowing that he released me from his insurance when I turned 18 (as I'm sure he felt his parental responsibilities were at an end), the best he could recommend was for me to declare myself as indigent. This basically means that I'd be trying to rip off the hospital - the same one that saved my life - because he didn't want to be fiscally responsible for any part of the charges. Never mind that I had nearly died - he needed to be absolved of all charges.
- When I applied for a student loan that required both of my biological parents to co-sign, he refused, claiming that he didn't know what kind of a financial position he'd be in after I graduated in four years. This, of course, implied that he didn't trust me to make the payments. I have since paid the loan off, not missing one payment. I even paid it off early.
- Last summer, when he was visiting his invalid mother, I brought my family down to visit. We had a wonderful day, visiting museums, swimming, having dinner, looking at photos, etc. The next morning, he informed me that if I had knocked on his adjoining room door after my family had gone to bed, I wouldn't have found him, as he had gone to visit his "fuck-buddy;" and he made it very clear to me that he had specifically defined that role with this open hole of a person. I did let him know that, as that was something from my past that still stung a little (he did cheat on my mother, which made me aware that my family was not wholly satisfying for him), and that I might not need to know all of those details of his life. I did say that I didn't expect him to be completely celibate, but I just didn't need to hear about those activities. Perhaps I should have been more clear ...
- And, just yesterday, after maintaining daily contact with the nursing staff in the hospitals and wards to which he's been assigned, I called him yesterday to find out that he was Skyping his "ladyfriend from Tunisia." According to him, he'd met her years before when he was in LA on a conference, and they'd recently re-discovered each other. On one hand, I was a little surprised to find out he had a "ladyfriend" at all, since he vowed that he's probably shit at relationships (I couldn't agree more - he's been married three times, and has been the primary reason each relationship has failed). But, what was more distressing is that he was Skyping her, probably videochat, but couldn't even lift a finger to call me, his next of kin, to let me know that he was in a medical emergency. If I hadn't responded to the message I got from the Emergency Room in Washington, Kansas, I wouldn't have known that anything was wrong. I have been the instigator of all contact since then. And, since the genesis of this medical plight, I have maintained consistent contact; I know more about his condition than he does. I represent the last blood tie that he has, but the lady in Tunisia that he met 16 years ago took precedence. To say I feel undervalued ... is an understatement.
I've let him know that I disapprove of most of this. I've let him know that his actions have hurt the ones he claims to love the most. He makes excuses; the hurt still exists. It seems to be one of those "agree to disagree" situations.
I've known that my father is prone to addiction. He's never taken a sip of any alcoholic beverage. He smokes cigarettes, he drinks Diet Pepsi like it's water, and has smoked marijuana religiously for years. The epiphany has recently come upon me that my father has another addiction, and it is the one that has been the most significant throughout his life: abject and unconditional admiration from any other human being. Note the specific distinction: not unconditional "love," but "admiration," implying something akin to idolatry. Thus, when his mother died (the only person to love him unconditionally and approve of virtually everything he has done), he lost his only constant source of this drug. Of course, she gave it - she lost the rest of her family (my biological grandfather, my uncle and aunt) in a house fire when my father was five. And, he's right up there on her wall of admiration, even higher than her portrait of Jesus and her JFK commemorative plate.
My mother did not always give it, since she had opinions (heaven forbid), and sometimes she would debate with him. She was a debate coach after all, but more importantly, a sensible woman. His second wife did not give it, since she had another drug of choice that would make her complacent (a cocktail of wine and whatever prescription painkiller might be available - he was partially responsible for her breaking her spine in 1992, when she was subsequently diagnosed with osteoporosis), and didn't need him. His third wife did give it, until she realized that she was not of enough value for him to stop registering with online dating websites after they were married. I do not give it. My wife does not give it. My sons give it, because they don't know any better. I don't wish to portray their grandfather as a villain. I'm sure they'll come to realize, as I did, that he is not the man they believe he is. He can always be counted upon to prove his true self.
People can approve and disapprove of another person's actions as they please. This does not mean that a disapproval is always worthy of a dismissal. This is my father's policy. If you disapprove of any of his actions, you're on the blacklist.
Perhaps I'm depicting my father rather unfairly. After all, he has made trips to see my plays, he did visit me when I lived out of town, he actually came to my college graduation. But, I have enough experience with him to realize that these were not his only purposes for visits. If he had nothing to gain outside of the visit, he wouldn't have come. He always had an ulterior motive for coming to visit me. The only time that I can recall that he didn't was when he would visit me in Seattle. Of course, he was a grandfather for the first time, that was somewhat momentous. However, he was also married to his third wife at the time, who may have been the most conscientious person I have ever met. Most likely, she was able to convince him to visit people because of a mutual love and respect. I feel cheated that she is no longer part of my family.
It is apparent to me that he somewhat wants to be a father and a grandfather. He's just really shitty at it. Especially when he knows that being a father does not warrant unconditional approval.
So, he's still my father, at least only by blood. I regret that I never had the type of father that I have become; I think I'm a pretty good one. At least, that's what the looks on my sons' faces say when I surprise them by coming home for lunch - they are genuinely happy to see me. And, I owe it to them to continue to be the father that is worthy of that surprise. My mother did her best to replace my father; I am eternally grateful to my stepfather for providing my mother and home with the stability we needed. But, it never replaced the father-god that I imagined I had and lost.
Congratulations, Lynda from Tunisia, you are the next drug. And, you will be tossed aside like so many others once the high you produce wears off. It is inevitable.
Like Willy's funeral, there will be few there when my father dies. Attention will not be paid. No one will remember his legacy, if he ever had one. I am the inheritor of nothing, and that does take a lot of weight off my shoulders. My mother used to (and still will bring it up on occasion) apologize for choosing such a poor father for me. How could she have known? I do not harbor any ill will towards her. And, I'm somewhat glad for the situation. If not for it, I don't know that I would have chosen the performing arts as a career. For where else do damaged psyches fit better than in the arts?
So, the path continues, another bump here and there. The phone isn't ringing right now, but I'm sure it will someday, and that wound might find closure. Until then, I've gotten pretty good at first aid.
