Sticks + Stones

Growing up, my sisters and I had the weekend chore of picking up sticks and stones from the yard before my father mowed the lawn. Frequently, my dad's request for yardwork came right in the middle of American Bandstand, which was my lifeline to music and culture. My attempts to delay chores sent my dad into a rage. On the weekends, he started off the day with a can of Schaefer beer, so by mid-day he was unreasonable and often verbally abusive. It was hard to predict what might set him off, our fights were painful, and left me with a deep resentment towards him. 

I still remember the day I vowed to stop hating my father. We were visiting my grandparents when I had a realization about my father's life. He was the youngest of eleven children, so my grandparents were in their 70s when I was a teenager. My grandfather had suffered a stroke and wasn't able to communicate. He was grizzled and a bit frightening, but I also felt sorry for him. I began to notice that none of his children ever spoke to him, it was like he didn't exist. Over the years, my cousin and I had found countless liquor bottles wedged into the walls of my grandparent's barn and I realized that my grandfather may have been an alcoholic. Maybe that could explain why his own children would ignore him in his old age. It broke my heart and I couldn't bear the thought of abandoning my own father.

It took many years and some therapy for me to fully forgive my father for his emotionally abusive outbursts. It's still challenging to have deep conversations with him, but we have mended the pain in our relationship. While I don't always see eye-to-eye with my father (especially on politics) I love him and I'm proud that over the past few years he's given up drinking.