Fathered, 2nd Edition
(or, What I Wish I Thought I Knew)
Sometimes what we think we know is really just what we wish we knew.
Skeletal memories are filled in with daydreams and fantasies, and whatever's left over is topped off with a little logic. "Hmm...It must have been like this because, surely, this makes the most sense.
For this reason, writing about my father is easy. He is forever memorialized by his untimely death, and I get to hear stories, stories, stories. They echo in my mind- from my mother, from my aunts, from his mother. Few speak ill of the dead.
He was "a real Samoan boy" (not Samoan, but born in Apia and looked the part) or, "Philip the Beautiful," the two names with which he'd christened himself. My grandmother has told me that he was her brightest child out of six smarties, but with that intelligence comes hard stuff. They say he felt things in a big way. Empathy haunted him- for animals, for humans, for the world. The family's default illustration is the time he gave his new and hard-earned shoes to a man on the bus. The stories sound tender, but listen to this 19-year-old voice that I read in his missionary calendar:
What the hell am I doing in Japan teaching housewives to speak English so that they will have
something to do in their spare time when children are starving to death in southeast Asia and
Africa? My stupid government pays farmers not to grow grain on certain land so the price will
stay up and in the mean time people starve to death...Yes, I am shaken, and yes, I want to get out
of this country.
Ultimately, he did get out. But too early, just like his death.
But, then, he squeezed in time to love my mother, with her barricades and all.
I love him for loving her.
"This I know, that he loved your mother."
"At least we know he was crazy about Karen."
"I know that he loved me...in his way."
He took the time to tell her goodbye. Arms around her while she slept, and a pre- and post-apology, "I'm sorry, Karen," whispered in her REM-filtered ears. And she knew when he left. But she kept her young eyes closed against the possibility and hurt.
But what about my pre- and post-apology? I was there too. Was it collective? I think I know I heard it.
Like an eavesdrop.
But was he sorry to me? So...
I wonder what he thought of me.
I wonder what it would have been like if I had been loved by him.
I wonder what role he plays in my life now.
I am like him, I think. I have been told this from a myriad of sources, but I also feel it.
I am like him, but if he didn't like himself, would he like me?
I am like him, but if he didn't like himself, would he like me?
*I wear his gray track sweatshirt with the red #22. It's worn to white at the writs and elbows from too many times trying to put him on.*
His feelings got too big, so he atoned for the world, my grandmother said. If only he understood. If only he knew, she says.
Sometimes, when I run and it gets hard, I know he's with me. Or maybe I just wish I knew it.
I tell him stuff and imagine what he might say by filling in skeletal memories with daydreams, fantasies, and a dollop of logic.
Ashley--you don't have to apologize for writing personal stuff at all! It just makes it very difficult to provide constructive feedback because I feel like you've invited us into a very private part of your life, and it would be rude to comment on it (well, and the fact that you are an insanely beautiful writer also makes it difficult to give feedback).
ReplyDeleteMy favorite sentence this time is the first one, because, wow! I love when you read something and the trueness of it kind of hurts you physically. I also really like the way you included your father's voice and the way you seamlessly moved between prose and poetry.
I think this feels like one piece, and I love the circular nature of it. Perhaps the thing I would suggest is the way you move between the distinct parts of the story, particularly when you transition out of your father's poetry, and then when you transition to the part you starred (which is maybe why you starred it?)
Thanks for sharing with us (and for the record, I totally think you could share this with high school students)
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ReplyDeleteJust kidding, I remember now that the * means a place that you like your writing! I really like that line, too! I just feel like the rhetorical question you end with in the previous verse is so profound, and then the shift feels sudden. Sorry!
ReplyDeleteI agree with Alison, it will be very difficult to give you any advice, what a beautiful testament to you father. I agree it is sometimes easier to share your most personal thoughts with people out in the great expanse rather than burdening our family with them over and over.
ReplyDeleteI really loved your word choice for skeletal memories, and was surprised (but loved) how you used the same phrase as a book end at the end of the essay. I sense a deeper meaning?
I think it was a nice touch to have some of his words, then guess what he would say to you. It was nice to get a glimpse into what kind of man he was. Limited, much like your own view.
I also really liked the line, "few speak ill of the dead." So powerful yet true.
I loved the line you starred. Because of the picture you shared, I can see the sweatshirt, and I imagine a young girl wearing an oversized sweatshirt trying to connect to her father, the only way she has left. This was perfect imagery.
Great writing, as usual! Thank you so much for sharing with us! I really do feel I learn so much from reading your blog entries.
Gosh- you make it hard to give comments for improvement! This is a beautiful piece. Like Mara said my favorite line is "few speak ill of the dead," you used this perfectly and it echoed in my mind throughout the piece. If I had to suggest something for improvement I would say the ending could use a bit more conclusion. I had to read it three times to get the meaning and connection pieces. Are you done? or is there more to add? If you are going to wrap it up at this point maybe you could restate a line or a phrase from the middle section to help the reader recognize it is coming to an end? Idk like Alison said I feel like it's rude of me to suggest improvements on such an intimate piece. Thank you so much for sharing- your writing is outstanding.
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