For Part V Click Here.
There are very few moments in my life when I think extensively about my biological father. My thoughts towards him usually don’t last for more than a couple of minutes at a time. I have vague and unpleasant memories of my father. I also have vague and fragmented memories of my grandparents on that particular side of the family.
During this trip to The Motherland, I learned that my father was from a privileged background. Apparently, my grandparents did fairly well in life financially speaking. It made sense to me when I began putting some of the broken pieces together. The memories of living in a nice house only down the street from my grandparent’s nicer house started to become a little clearer. There were thoughts of my sister and I racing up and down the street and riding rafts to grandpa’s during flooding season.
However, there was one memory that stood out for some reason, namely, the memory of my grandfather’s funeral. It was in Thailand, and I was only a small child. I didn’t have very many memories of my grandparents. During the time of his passing, I just remembered my father being extremely sad. When someone loses a parent, sadness is a normal and legitimate emotional response. I didn’t have a problem with my father mourning over the lost of his father. But there’s a difference between mourning over the lost of a loved one and being completely aloof, coldly detached, and strangely distant from the rest of your family members.
People handle grief differently. I understand that. But the way my father handled his grief during that time was a foreshadowing of things to come. He didn’t take the opportunity to teach his son about the frailty of life, that everyone has a finite amount of time and that time shouldn’t be wasted. He wasn’t a pillar of strength for his family during a difficult time. He wilted under the despair, clearly seen by his son. It left an impression on a young boy beyond his years. Maybe he didn’t bother using it as a teachable moment because I was just a kid. Maybe he understood that those lessons would’ve been far beyond my ability to comprehend. Maybe he simply loved his father and no longer having him was just too much to bear.
If that were the case, those valuable lessons every son needs to learn never came. Incidentally, shortly after that time, I have little memory of my father ever being around. I’ve only met with him a hand-full of times in my life. From what my family tells me, he squandered his inheritance from his father’s estate, never was able to stick to a job, and had major gambling issues. He sounds like a real role model.
Maybe that’s why it was difficult for me to cope with my emotions growing up. Maybe that’s why it was hard to deal with rejection from girls in high school and college. Maybe that’s why it was burdensome to connect with my mom at a young age. It might be that my father never taught me these things. Worst yet, maybe my father DID teach me these things by being absent and detached. It’s no coincidence I was absent and detached throughout my teenage years. I tried to never take responsibility for myself and made every effort to look for the easy way out. I was my father’s son.
Throughout the years I would occasionally get a phone call from him. The phone calls were never “How are you doing?” type of calls. The phone calls were usually my father giving me some sob story of how he fell on hard times and needed some money. Sweet! As you could imagine, the phone calls didn’t last very long. A lasting memory of my father that I have burned into my cranium was the time shortly after my mother passed away. He called and said, “I’m sorry about your mother, do you have money I could borrow?” For a split second I actually thought my father had some decency in him after all when he said, “I’m sorry about your mother . . . “ but then when he proceeded to ask for money in the same breath I was speechless. He never asked me if I were dating anyone when I was growing up. He never asked how college was going. I didn’t hear from him when I graduated with two Master’s degrees from grad school. Not a word from him when I got married. He doesn’t even know I just bought a house. But when my mom passed away, her body not yet laid to rest, my father thought it was a good time to ask for some money. Amazing. I didn’t respond but simply handed the phone back to my sister Vicky.
I’ll never forget that phone call. It was the last time I spoke to my father. My sister Vicky refuses to give him my new contact information even though he’s asked several times. I think a lot about that moment more then I care to admit. The reason is because there’s a part of me that wants to ask him, “Do you have no decency? …no dignity as a man? Your son’s lasting memory of you is you asking him for money when his mother died. How does that make you feel?” I predict his response would be something like, “So does this mean you’re not giving me any money?”
For the conclusion to The Motherland series click here.
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