Dave, my dad, died in 1991.
I will never know what holes have been left in my life because he died relatively young.
My parents separated when I was 9, and while not earth-shattering in its uniqueness or even its perceived common-ness, that has affected me profoundly and I will never know the holes that event has left in my life either. I don’t know what I don’t know. I have no idea how, or if, my life would be different if Dave had lived to a ripe old age, and, more importantly, we had healed the rift that existed between us for twenty years.
Fatherlessness has been called the worst social disease in modern history, the most harmful demographic trend of this generation. It’s simplistic to say, but having generations of boys growing up without a significant male role model it is no wonder men nowadays are unsure of what it means to be a man. In the 70s, 80s, and even the 90s, the prevailing thought undermined fatherhood, preaching a gospel that said children really don’t even need dads. They benefit from the money he may have provided, but if the State can provide that, what are dads for? Mum can do the job adequately, and let’s throw in Uncle Joe and label him the token male role model.
I am a child of that philosophy and society is now reaping the consequences of that demonstrably failed dogma. Fatherlessness is over-represented in the negative statistics that suggest our society is in crisis. Arguably, drug abuse, alcohol abuse, domestic violence, child abuse, teenage pregnancy and rampant crime are merely symptoms of a deeper malaise. While not the only cause of this undeniable malaise, fatherlessness is certainly a primary factor that society has long been reluctant to consider (tell me the feminists don’t have a lot to answer for!). Only in the last few years has that ignorance begun to be addressed.
I have three vivid memories involving my father.
In 1972 I remember my heart being ripped apart at the news he wasn’t going to be living with us any more, and screaming, begging him to take me with him. I had no idea where he was going, or what it all meant. I was 9 and I just wanted to be with my dad.
In (about) 1989, as my life reached a crisis point, while at university in the US, I remember locking myself in my office in our apartment and weeping…weeping non-stop for what seemed like hours. I don’t really remember what was going on in my mind, but I knew I was weeping because there was a giant vacuum in my soul that had been put there by my father.
And many years later (I can’t even remember when… 1994? 1996?) my brother, sister and I said a final goodbye to our dad as we let his ashes wash down a river somewhere in Karangahake, one of Dave’s favourite fishing spots (I think).
Of course, there are other memories. But even the fond ones are cast under the dark shadow of his emotional distance or his altogether absence. I remember asking him to take me fishing with him once, and I remember him saying no. I never asked again. I remember visiting him often at his office at the Railways in Rotorua. I remember him, in those pre-computer days, bringing me a typewriter from his office so I could play on it. I remember his small, one bedroom flat in which, especially remembering it now, he cut a particularly pathetic and lonely figure.
I don’t really remember his first heart attack at 54. But I do remember the phone call I got from my (then) brother-in-law, five years later, telling me Dave was dead.
Since my office-locking weeping, and some counselling (both as part of my studies and something I felt necessary for myself) I had resolved to heal the wound that had been caused in my relationship with Dave. We arrived back in New Zealand in February, 1991. He, with the rest of my family, was at the airport to greet us. They all saw their grand-son (Matthew) for the first time, and this is the only photo I have of Dave with any of my boys. A few months later he died. The wound had not even begun to be healed.
There was no angry antagonism between us. It was not the kind of relationship where he was the cantankerous old git and I was the compliant little boy or the placater. To my memory, there was nothing. Which may be a bit harsh. I know he was around. He was involved in another long term relationship with a nice woman (nice until the meagre will became an issue). He drove me to work sometimes. He came to my wedding. He took me to Citizen’s Club picnics.
As to a “relationship” there wasn’t one. But even saying that sounds disrespectful. In recent years I have discovered that he, like so many of us, just simply did the best he could with what he had. As far as I know he wasn’t an abusive man. I don’t remember him ever hitting me or smacking me. He was educated, articulate. He seemed to lack ambition or drive. He enjoyed a smoke and a beer. Or two. He played snooker at the RSA or the Citizen’s Club.
One of the things I longed for was to go with him to play snooker at the Citz Club. In light of the fishing rebuff I was always reluctant to ask. Though the timing is vague, I do know that once before he died we spent the afternoon playing snooker at the Citizen’s Club in Rotorua.
Perhaps, instead of sitting down and rehashing the previous twenty years and the hurts and wounds, those games of snooker symbolised something at the time neither of us understood. Perhaps instead of hugging and crying and forgiving, we subconsciously let the years of aloneness slide away with every pot of every coloured ball. And in typical Kiwi man-style, we had a couple of beers and laughed.
I think I had decided to leave the heavy talk for another time, as surely it would eventually be necessary.
But that time never came. The next time I saw him he was dead in a box in a church.
I could wax lyrical about the need to seize the moment, but we do things in our own good time, and sometimes the timing doesn’t work. Whether via something specific like a game of snooker or a hug at the airport, or via some sub-conscious maturity that comes to us all, I feel Dave and I made up. Dave had done nothing for me to hate him, or even to disrespect him, so perhaps that made it easier for me to “forgive” him.
But I don’t know what the last twenty years would have been like had he lived. And I will probably never fully understand just what affect upon me Dave’s absence has had.
I find myself lacking ambition, and even motivation. I don’t make friends easily. I have an incredible tolerance for the “big” things, but I get angry quickly at little things (tangled cords and stupid things that don’t work as they “should”). Is that the legacy Dave left me, or some other inadequacy in me? Is it genetic? Learned? Or just a character flaw in me? Are my failed relationships (there have been many) due to some sense that I have no idea what it means to be a boyfriend/husband? Was I weak and bullied at school because I didn’t know what it really meant to be a man? Am I distant from my sons because I never learned to be a father?
Did I feel overcome while writing this (at the bit about scattering the ashes) because the wound will never really be healed and I’m simply fooling myself thinking I may have resolved my fatherlessness issues? Is such a deep wound ever healed?
So, it’s Father’s Day. Like birthdays and Christmas I really don’t make a big deal about it. Josh was excited to buy me presents and make me toast and coffee this morning and I loved it. Matt came over and despite our relative estranged-ness, I love him dearly and am immensely proud of him for the man he has become. Chris was called in to work (at McDonalds) last night at 11 to cover no-shows, worked all night and then his normal shift today. He has a pretty good work ethic and I’m proud of him too (even if he won’t tidy his room).
That’s probably all I need for Father’s Day…to have three wonderful sons (and a step-son in Wellington who is growing into a fine young man too). And lest anyone misjudge, I’m not really claiming much of the credit for any of it.
I don’t remember what Father’s Day was like when Dave was alive. Probably the perfunctory socks and underwear… or a cheap McKenzies tie or some smokes. I doubt I cared.
I’m reluctant to trace back some of the short-comings in my life and personality to a trauma experienced in the wake of my own fatherlessness, or the lack of an active role model. But can I ignore it? My life has taken a million turns. Would I have made better decisions if Dave had been more present and guided me? Would I have dealt with heartache and tragedy better if Dave’s arms had been available? Would I respect people more if he had encouraged me to do so, and rebuked me when I didn’t? Would I have had better relationships if he had showed me how it should be done?
Who knows? I’m not blaming him for my mistakes, especially the ones I’ve made when I was old enough to know better. I’m just wondering how my life would be different now if this morning I could have called him and wished him a happy Father’s Day.
