Monday, March 19, 2012
Thursday, March 8, 2012
My Father's Voice
My Father’s Voice
My father’s voice has different sounds: one that my teachers and friends hear and the one that echoes in my ears. His words speak volumes to both ears. While one hears a father who offers his child the world, the means and abilities to obtain her dreams and desires--everything a father should do, the younger me, the child, hears a voice of condescension, arrogance and indifference; nevertheless, it is a voice I must abide or lose all semblance of security.
Nebraska, 1974, Sunday Brunch in the Officer’s Club: I drop a piece of cantaloupe and reach down to pick it up. Before my hand touches the piece of fruit, I am stopped abruptly by the sound of my father’s voice speaking these words: “Don’t touch it! It’s not your job!” I knew what was coming having been corrected before in a place of business. My insides shake. The knowledge explodes within my mind and auto-pilot kicks in. I am no longer aware of my surroundings. Somehow, I continue eating but not tasting the meal which is before me. Voices, noises, and the bustle of the Club seem to disappear around me as rapidly as my outward appearance continues its emotionless, yet essential, functions: the obligations and demands of an Officer’s child. I know how I must present myself, how not to show the feelings of fear which build within me.
California, 1996, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon: I am stuck waiting impatiently for my child’s prescription. From behind me, two hands grab my shoulders. Surprised, I jump; however, these words: “What are you doing here?” cause my insides to shake, heart to pound and my mind to freeze. It is not my father’s voice, but that of our pediatrician and friend. “Filling the prescription you just called in” are the words which leave my mouth as I bury the unwarranted fears within me.
Hawaii, 2010, I find myself upon the shores of my childhood home once again: however, this time it is to repair a wound older than my father’s voice: my mother’s death. In fact, it may be the cause of my father’s controlling and condescending voice. Twelve days after my seventh birthday, the last one she would attend, my mother passed away. I didn’t know that then, just as I did not know that Christmas would be the last time I’d see my mother well. The next afternoon a navy- blue ambulance swallowed her--bed and all. I sat on the brown carpeted stairs ignorant of the changes my future held, the changes which now bring me once again to the world’s paradise and the beginnings of my purgatory.
The melody of gentle waves upon the shore, the fulfillment of boarding once again, the smell and taste of familiar waters, and the company of a wonderful friend I’ve known for thirty-five years form new memories of this world’s paradise. That evening in her home, we reminisce about our shared youth, showing horses, raising and butchering the animals, the life of living on “Utopia” Debbie’s words for our family farm. My friend, overcome by curiosity, asks a question that I had never before contemplated.
“How did your mom and dad meet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask him.”
“No! You don’t ask Dad.”
“Why?”
“You just don’t.”
“Why not? He’s alive isn’t he?”
“Yes, well uh, I don’t know why. You just don’t ask dad!”
* * *
Now, at the age of forty-five with six children of my own constantly asking about the past, I ask: How could he hurt me now? There is no longer a threat of being kicked out of the home for non-compliance like my older siblings were. What could he possibly do? Hang up! Dialing a number forever etched in my memory, I hear the phone ring. I wonder the outcome of my boldness. Another ring and I pull the phone away from my ear. Looking for the end key, I hear my father’s voice on the other end:
“Hello.”
“Hi Dad! I’m in Hawaii visiting Debbie.”
“Debbie?! How is she doing?”
“She’s fine. You may speak with her.”
I pass my father over to my friend while putting the phone on speaker. Hearing the formalities and politeness of conversation in the background, I locate the paper and pencil to take notes when Debbie asks the ominous question: “How did you meet your wife?” To my surprise my father actually answers the question.
My father’s voice is different. What am I hearing? I hear joy, excitement, and contentment. I am hearing the voice my teachers and friends’ have always heard. He is speaking about Mom! Really? Nobody speaks about mom; it is not allowed. I write down the forbidden knowledge generously being shared. It is confusing yet wonderful to hear, the words flowing from my father’s mouth. I hear his voice and I am not ashamed; I am not frightened. I am stunned, shocked and amazed, however, with the amount of pleasure and joy emanating from my father’s voice.
Debbie hands me the phone:
“Hi, Dad!”
“It was nice speaking to Debbie.”
Click!
“Dad? . . . Bye.”
* * *
It’s okay. I am at peace. My father’s condescending voice after that “click” is now barely audible. The mind’s quietness liberates the disabling fears I formed in childhood. I am now keenly aware of my surroundings; yet, my mind still explodes -with curiosity; my heart still pounds –with delight; my body still trembles –with enthusiasm. My voice, no longer held by the strength of those combined powers, will never be silenced. I am free!
My father’s voice has different sounds: one that my teachers and friends hear and the one that echoes in my ears. His words speak volumes to both ears. While one hears a father who offers his child the world, the means and abilities to obtain her dreams and desires--everything a father should do, the younger me, the child, hears a voice of condescension, arrogance and indifference; nevertheless, it is a voice I must abide or lose all semblance of security.
Nebraska, 1974, Sunday Brunch in the Officer’s Club: I drop a piece of cantaloupe and reach down to pick it up. Before my hand touches the piece of fruit, I am stopped abruptly by the sound of my father’s voice speaking these words: “Don’t touch it! It’s not your job!” I knew what was coming having been corrected before in a place of business. My insides shake. The knowledge explodes within my mind and auto-pilot kicks in. I am no longer aware of my surroundings. Somehow, I continue eating but not tasting the meal which is before me. Voices, noises, and the bustle of the Club seem to disappear around me as rapidly as my outward appearance continues its emotionless, yet essential, functions: the obligations and demands of an Officer’s child. I know how I must present myself, how not to show the feelings of fear which build within me.
California, 1996, on a beautiful Sunday afternoon: I am stuck waiting impatiently for my child’s prescription. From behind me, two hands grab my shoulders. Surprised, I jump; however, these words: “What are you doing here?” cause my insides to shake, heart to pound and my mind to freeze. It is not my father’s voice, but that of our pediatrician and friend. “Filling the prescription you just called in” are the words which leave my mouth as I bury the unwarranted fears within me.
Hawaii, 2010, I find myself upon the shores of my childhood home once again: however, this time it is to repair a wound older than my father’s voice: my mother’s death. In fact, it may be the cause of my father’s controlling and condescending voice. Twelve days after my seventh birthday, the last one she would attend, my mother passed away. I didn’t know that then, just as I did not know that Christmas would be the last time I’d see my mother well. The next afternoon a navy- blue ambulance swallowed her--bed and all. I sat on the brown carpeted stairs ignorant of the changes my future held, the changes which now bring me once again to the world’s paradise and the beginnings of my purgatory.
The melody of gentle waves upon the shore, the fulfillment of boarding once again, the smell and taste of familiar waters, and the company of a wonderful friend I’ve known for thirty-five years form new memories of this world’s paradise. That evening in her home, we reminisce about our shared youth, showing horses, raising and butchering the animals, the life of living on “Utopia” Debbie’s words for our family farm. My friend, overcome by curiosity, asks a question that I had never before contemplated.
“How did your mom and dad meet?”
“I don’t know.”
“Ask him.”
“No! You don’t ask Dad.”
“Why?”
“You just don’t.”
“Why not? He’s alive isn’t he?”
“Yes, well uh, I don’t know why. You just don’t ask dad!”
* * *
Now, at the age of forty-five with six children of my own constantly asking about the past, I ask: How could he hurt me now? There is no longer a threat of being kicked out of the home for non-compliance like my older siblings were. What could he possibly do? Hang up! Dialing a number forever etched in my memory, I hear the phone ring. I wonder the outcome of my boldness. Another ring and I pull the phone away from my ear. Looking for the end key, I hear my father’s voice on the other end:
“Hello.”
“Hi Dad! I’m in Hawaii visiting Debbie.”
“Debbie?! How is she doing?”
“She’s fine. You may speak with her.”
I pass my father over to my friend while putting the phone on speaker. Hearing the formalities and politeness of conversation in the background, I locate the paper and pencil to take notes when Debbie asks the ominous question: “How did you meet your wife?” To my surprise my father actually answers the question.
My father’s voice is different. What am I hearing? I hear joy, excitement, and contentment. I am hearing the voice my teachers and friends’ have always heard. He is speaking about Mom! Really? Nobody speaks about mom; it is not allowed. I write down the forbidden knowledge generously being shared. It is confusing yet wonderful to hear, the words flowing from my father’s mouth. I hear his voice and I am not ashamed; I am not frightened. I am stunned, shocked and amazed, however, with the amount of pleasure and joy emanating from my father’s voice.
Debbie hands me the phone:
“Hi, Dad!”
“It was nice speaking to Debbie.”
Click!
“Dad? . . . Bye.”
* * *
It’s okay. I am at peace. My father’s condescending voice after that “click” is now barely audible. The mind’s quietness liberates the disabling fears I formed in childhood. I am now keenly aware of my surroundings; yet, my mind still explodes -with curiosity; my heart still pounds –with delight; my body still trembles –with enthusiasm. My voice, no longer held by the strength of those combined powers, will never be silenced. I am free!
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