To My Father: Words Unsaid

My father was born on June 22, 1911, in San Francisco. He died on April 2, 1994, in Los Angeles. Between those two dates he fathered six children, apparently blaming my mother for each pregnancy. I was the youngest, and perhaps, the least expected. When I arrived early on New Year’s Day in 1953, by all reports, I was an interruption to the New Year’s Eve celebration my parents were attending. Unfortunately, that sense of being an interruption has plagued me most of my life and shaped patterns of addiction fed by a nagging belief that I wasn’t wanted, and no matter how hard I tried, would never be good enough. 

In writing this, I’m praying that your experience with your father was different. That you might have been wanted and seen, held, played with, and cherished for the wonder that you are. 

My story is merely that, my story.

I do hope you might find some common ground as you read this, and no matter your experience with your father, as we approach Father’s Day 2022, that this might provide an opportunity for you to explore how this important relationship shaped and influenced who you became and who you are today. 

The following represents a letter I might write to my father today, a letter of introduction, since due to his own trauma, he never really knew me.

Dear Dad, 

Hi. I’m sorry we never had a chance to get to know each other. I missed you! I’m sure you remember me. I was that mostly quiet kid, the one you didn’t hear from much. The one you yelled at when we went to the market, telling me to keep my %?#&ing hands off things. What you didn’t know is that I have a strong sense of touch, and experiencing the world through this sense was and remains very important to me. It wasn’t my intention to upset you. I was just being a kid. 

I was also the one who loved school (like you). I worked hard, got good grades , read voraciously, and even did extra credit. You often called me a ‘brown noser,’ a term I didn’t understand until I was much older. In fourth grade I received some of the highest scores on the Iowa Test of Basic Skills. When I brought the report home to you, you glanced at the results and instead of complimenting me on all the 90% and above, you said, “What happened in map reading?” (where I scored a dismal 67%). I doubt if you remember this, but I was wounded. I so wanted you to notice me and be proud. Instead, I had to settle for your disdain.

About eight years later something similar occurred. I remember well the morning I opened that congratulatory letter from USC stating I had received a full scholarship to attend in 1971. I walked outside to where you were working on the yard you were paid to tend and showed you the letter. You read it quickly, grunted, and walked away. Years later, when I brought this up to you, you said you didn’t remember this event, but if that’s what happened, you were sorry. 

I have a pretty good idea about why these achievements were so difficult for you to acknowledge. Having listened to you tell your childhood stories over and over when you had been drinking, I know that you didn’t have the opportunities I did. When your mother finally came to retrieve you when you were 16, she asked if you wanted to go to school or work. You replied, “I’m pretty good at school” and she immediately responded, “I’ve got a job for you.” As much as your inability to acknowledge me stung, your mother’s unwillingness to see and hear you must have wounded you as well. I guess we share some of the same hurts. 

You grew up in the care of your grandmother where your mother left you as a small boy and you never knew your father. Once your grandmother died, you were sent to an orphanage. You told stories of working at a young age, of opportunities taken and missed out on, and then moving to be with your mother at age 16. While you were drinking and leaving and telling these stories to cope with the pain of your past, I was growing up.

I would like you to know that despite looking good on the outside, I was dying on the inside. That cute little boy who refused to take his tie off on Sunday, even when it was 100 degrees in September, was making every effort to be perfect. In his little developing brain, if he did everything right, tried his best to avoid mistakes, got good grades…then maybe things would be all right. At least he wouldn’t be the cause of your upset, and maybe, just maybe, this time you wouldn’t leave. Of course, as you well know, there is no way to be perfect. My shoes did wear out, and in time, even with the cardboard inserted to replace the sole, eventually new shoes would have to be purchased. I could not truly hide, and I could be a source of trouble.

Dad, perhaps the most important thing I want you to know is how all of this impacted my sense of safety in the world. I have lived with fear and doubt since I was that small little boy waiting for you to come home. You see, I was there when you didn’t. I listened to my mother’s pain and  tears while simultaneously feeling happy, relieved that, at least for a few days, the tension that permeated our home when you were there, would subside. During that time, I didn’t have to wonder what kind of a mood you would be in. I didn’t have to quietly hide in plain sight hoping you wouldn’t see me. I didn’t have to accompany you to the store on Friday nights after you’d been drinking, wandering the aisles, while you went to the bar next door for another libation. 

I lived in fear. Despite successes (I was an assistant principal and principal of a school, and I earned three master’s degrees), I continued to live in the fear that I might be seen as lacking, certain that if people really knew me, they wouldn’t like me. Since I was convinced you didn’t like me, why would others? And despite living a public life, I hid in the shadows of addiction. On the one hand my life said, “Look at me!” On the other it said, “Look away! You won’t like what you see!” 

I suppose, Dad, this is the point. I have been a conflicted, confused, little boy, in a grown-up body. I want you to know, however, things are so much better today. Ten years ago, I married the love of my life. I am saved through the blood of Jesus, and I am growing in my awareness of a heavenly Father who has loved me and stayed with me through all of this. He has blessed me beyond measure and given me, through the sacrifice of His Son Jesus, more than I ever lost or deserved. So, you see, Dad, this painful story has a happy ending. Today I can say ‘thanks’ for listening and for being a part of my beginning! Happy Father’s Day!

The views, opinions, and ideas expressed in this blog are those of the author alone and do not reflect an official position of Pure Desire Ministries, except where expressly stated.