I am my father's child

midweek reflections

Yesterday I attended a funeral that I am still processing if I am quite honest. The music. The lights. The particular venue. The sheer amount of tears I wept that were for myself and those precious ones that I have lost along this chaotic journey of life. I attended with a friend who has become like family to me. While there are many aspects of that particular time and space that I wish to write on in future days, something struck me during the part of service where loved ones were called to reflect on the life of the deceased. I was struck as another precious friend declared her love for her father. Declaring boldly that she was the daughter of this great man.

And that struck me.

In a particular way.

I am my father’s son.

That phrase at once stings and beckons me further into reflection. Our parents shape us in ways that we can perceive and in ways that are completely hidden. The truth is that I have slowly awakened to this truth over the past few years. I grew up enmeshed in hostility with a father who seemed to hate me. (Seemed is doing a lot of work here…he made it pretty known.) The way that I carried myself, cried easily, didn’t take to sports, had an affinity for music, could read forever…all of this seemed to anger my father in ways that I couldn’t make sense of. He had a rage that made me realize over and over again that home wasn’t with him. That we could never be friends. And so…I learned to hate him. We are a stark contrast. He is shorter, dark-skinned, and muscular. I am tall, moving a touch out of lanky as this metabolism slows, brown, and I wear glasses. I resigned many years ago to the fact that I would never get what I needed from him. If there was any way to make in this world, I would have to make it from myself.

And then I was in a hit and run some years back and something started to shift. My father called me for the first time in years. We didn’t talk about anything really, but we spoke. And at the beginning of the pandemic, my father told me he loved me for the first time in life that I can ever recall. These days are awkward. Weird. Different. I am my father’s child no matter how much I deny it. Though we look completely different, I have made peace with the reality that many of my thoughts mirror his. As I get older I find myself saying things that he uttered to me as a child. His rage clouded so many things, but I am seeing wisdom. Instinctually, I reach for my father in subtle ways. Though we can never have the full relationship that I desire, time and circumstances prohibit that, I can say that I am my father’s child too. I am not ashamed of him.