dad

“Severe separations in early life leave emotional scars on the brain because they assault the essential human connection: The [parent-child] bond which teaches us that we are lovable. The [parent-child] bond which teaches us how to love. We cannot be whole human beings—indeed, we may find it hard to be human—without the sustenance of this first attachment.”

- Judith Viorst

I’ve spent so much time examining, dissecting, putting back together and re-examining my mother, and our relationship, but my father-wound has remained largely untouched. My image of my dad from before my parent’s separation and ultimate divorce, up to the age of eight or so, was a dichotomy. On one hand, someone goofy, always trying to entertain. There are joyous memories intact of my dad’s Popeye impression, or his distinct laugh that ended with a high-pitched, “Oh, shit!” Or dad in the garage playing drums, solo or with bandmates, Joe and Mikey. I can remember a single photo of us together: I’m a toddler with wispy blonde-white hair wearing a white hooded sweatshirt with dancing bears on it. My dad, tall, wide-frame 80s specs, dark, thick hair, beard and mustache, is holding me. We’re both staring straight-faced at the camera. He’s a darker complected Italian dude and you wouldn’t know we were related except for having the same eyes. 

My dad was the favorite uncle. Always with a joke, an impression. A picture of him with a knuckle bent inside his nostril. Another of him carrying one of my cousins over his shoulder while they’re in a fit of laughter. The baby of the family, the prankster. My cousins still see him on occasion for beers. They tell me about it. The only thing I can think is, “That’s not the person I know.”

The other memories of my dad were harsher. Of violent arguments with my mom. The three of us, my siblings and I, hiding at the top of the stairs while we watched fights unfurl in the kitchen. Of him squirting liquid hand soap into my mouth after I said something he didn’t like. Of his spankings. Of him, post divorce, sitting quietly at the dinner table during holidays hosted by his parents, watching us engage with his family. Mostly of him abandoning us, leaving us to live in an abusive house.

I can count the number of real conversations we’ve had together on one hand. One while I was in high school, pacing around my grandma’s dining table. This was a year or so after I had run away to live with her. That time, we talked about libertarianism. Another phone call early on in the pandemic, pacing around my bedroom. We talked about environmentalism. And once, after his dad died, sitting in my car outside my house, we talked about addiction. 

Growing up I referred to him as “sperm donor”. It felt accurate, and it made my friends laugh. (Maybe I got that last part from my dad.) It’s unclear how long post divorce, but for a time we saw him every other weekend. I don’t ever remember spending the night, just day outings. Like the time he took us to the movie theater to see Stephen King’s horror flick “Thinner” when I was nine. 

I remember the visits became less frequent until they didn’t happen at all. Most of my teenage years were spent seeing my dad on major holidays, especially the Catholic ones: Thanksgiving, Easter and Christmas. There wasn’t much talking in between. Most birthdays, I’d usually get a card in the mail with a check. After both of my grandparents died and the cards stopped coming, I realized they might have been the instigators. 

I reached out to him a few years ago when my sibling told me about his cancer diagnosis. First I sent texts, then called, then another text. I never heard back. When I mentioned this to my sibling who had delivered the news to me, they shared about their own recent conversations with him. He had picked up for them. I winced at the tenderness of the wound this hit. Of abandonment, of unacceptance. A thousand triggers set off, a thousand ways this wound shows up.

My relationship with my mother has long been part of my story, but my dad, symbolic of his disappearance from my life, has been mostly absent from the narrative. This vacancy has no less left its mark. I know I have his eyes, and his feet, and his legs, but having no personal connection to him, no idea who he is, has left me uncertain about who I am. I've largely been left cobbling him together from the experiences or thoughts about him that were given to me from everyone except him. Everything I knew about him, and everything I was taught to feel and think about him, was done through the filter of others. So many people spoke for him, acted and did for him, to try to influence how I felt. 

My understanding is that my dad grew up with an abusive father, who grew up with an abusive father. My dad married an abusive person and was an abuser himself through neglect, verbal and physical abuse. His absence has left a gaping hole that I’ve spent a lifetime joking about, ignoring or shrugging off. I want to tell you I can pick up the phone right now and ask any questions, but I can’t. I want to write a story that ends with a burgeoning relationship developed in adulthood, but it doesn’t. I watch those movies and read those stories in envy. For some of us, our story is that our parents never had any interest in parenting, and that will remain a static fact for our lifetime. 

As I’ve gotten older, it’s become clearer to me that my dad’s lifetime of abuse that drove him inward, his lifetime of soul wounds, made it impossible for him to parent. These wounds my parents carry, my grandparents carried, my ancestors carried, they gape open, scream their agonies, and call to the future begging for help. I’m trying hard to listen. I’m trying to give it light, air. Sometimes I scream back at it. 

As I lean in closer to examine, putting aside the jokes and shrugging, I see there is a deep longing and desire to be loved. Truly loved. The love we inherently expect and need from our parents. Love that bell hooks helps us understand as, “to truly love we must learn to mix the various ingredients — care, affection, recognition, respect, commitment, and trust”. “Abuse and neglect,” she says, “are by definition the opposites of nurturance and care.”

I’ve thought for so long that being parentless shaped my identity by giving me a sense of humor as a defense mechanism. Or to be someone who feels overly responsible because I took over decision making for myself so young. But the truth of this identity, of having parents who weren’t available to parent, is that I’m simply someone learning what it means to love and be loved. It doesn’t mean I didn’t experience care, or nurturing, or encouragement from others. I’ve always been fortunate to receive balms for my wounds from family members, teachers, friends and their families. But the two people I needed to love me, they've always been and continue to be unable. And because of that, I will spend my lifetime learning how to be loved, how to love others, and how to love myself.

I know that if my mom and dad had received love as a child, had been taught how to love, that they would have known how to love me. And from this, I would have learned. I see this as some of my life’s great work. It’s because I have received so much care and affection, and all the ingredients, through many avenues and relationships that I do know authentic love in this lifetime. And I do know as a student of love that I am not alone.