That, on the day I write an impassioned defense of parenthood, my father calls me to physically threaten me for no rational reason. While I doubt there was a credible threat to what he said, he’s never physically threatened me before. He played another exposed nerve, too, that I don’t really want to talk about now.
There was something in his voice, though–a weird, cold aggression, one that suggested enough menace for me to think that, given the chance, he’d fuck me up. He hung up before I could figure out why he felt compelled to intrude on my life to issue a threat.
Dad’s always been a kind of dismissive non-presence in my life, disinterested in me pretty much since I gained the ability to walk and speak. His Bipolar Disorder made everything sort of a weird dance, the unpredictability of his mood matched in intensity only by his fascinating ability to work with kids. When his work at the Iowa Department of Transportation got too stressful, mom made him coach Parks & Rec Basketball; I’d watch him marshall groups of two-dozen unruly boys and have them in the palm of his hand. His charisma lent itself to instruction; he could get kids to do anything, rarely having to raise his voice. When we moved to Hawaii, he stepped into the classroom and taught ESL; the teaching bug really had him for a long time. He enjoyed helping kids; they took some of the stress out of his unsatisfying life.
Growing up, everything I learned about engaging kids and challenging them to succeed, I learned from watching him coach, teach, and otherwise motivate. He was damn good at it. Kids remembered him. Kids adored him. I heard, from many more classmates than I care to admit, that they wished my dad were theirs.
I’ve never made much of a secret of the fact that I’ve always wanted to be to my students what my dad was to his. Probably part of the reason why I’m not a parent yet is because I don’t want to be to my kids what my dad was to me.
Just a thought.
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