My mother allegedly had sex when she was twenty-three with the man who is my biological father. I suppose the mere fact that he had something to do with my eventual existence is somewhat notable. Beyond this act, my relationship with the man that sired me has been less than ideal. My parents were divorced by the time I was five. From that time until I was around sixteen, I had one of those ‘occasional visit/two-week summer vacation’ type fathers. The kind of father who somehow felt gifts were a stand-in for love. During that time, my discontent and eventual loathing of my father festered like an invisible splinter in your thumb. There were things and actions on my father’s part that were inexcusable in my eyes. I think in his eyes I was a disappointment because I was not going to grow up with his inculcated and unwarranted machismo. Maybe it’s a Latin thing, maybe it’s just a stupid thing. But by sixteen, it was starting to be obvious to me (and perhaps others) that I was going to be a maricón.
One day while having a telephone conversation with him, something in me snapped. I can’t tell you what specific thing it was–something said or heard–but it uncorked a torrent of things I’d wanted to say for a very long time. Before that call was over, I knew that it would most likely be the very last time I would ever speak to my father. It’s been a curious tight rope walk. My sister (and her two children) still have a relationship with him. I, of course, would never do or say anything to in any way affect that relationship. He remembers their birthdays and Christmas and occasionally visits with them. Meanwhile, I just politely disconnect.
I realize in writing this I may end up sounding like a cold-hearted bastard. I would argue that in many ways, it’s the exact opposite. I feel too much with my heart. I remember things from my early childhood. I know things that maybe I shouldn’t. It’s difficult to articulate these without feeling like I’m bleeding across your monitor.
The reason I even visit any of this is because I was recently thinking about some of the things my father impressed upon me (whether he knew it or not). Some of these things may sound silly in hindsight, but believe me when I say they left fingerprints that lingered well-beyond my formative years.
I’m not much of an imbiber of alcoholic beverages. That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy an occasional cocktail. But, I honestly can only recall being what I consider ‘drunk’ one time in my life. In college, the whole alcohol thing became a dilemma for me. As is normal during that time, there were parties and nights out with friends. I never made a decision to not partake–but I was careful to moderate my intake. The one time I remember being drunk was during this time. I think in the back of my mind I was always fearful that I could be an alcoholic like my father. Whether that fear has any basis in reality is beside the point. The fact is I was terrified of becoming anything like the man who was my father. Even after college, I always wondered about the genetics involved. While I’m still not much of a drinker, I no longer have those fears. Somewhere along the way I learned that we are not destined to become the sins of our fathers.
Along with his alcoholism, my father possessed an all-consuming anger that tormented him. It, unfortunately, was also vented on the body of my mother. There are so many things to say about battered women and children who grow up in that environment. So many ways that bruises remain long after the blues and blacks have clotted away. However, I am determined to keep this introspection focused on me.
For many years, I had a gnawing trepidation when it came to my want (or lack thereof) of a family of my own. Again, part of this is an irrational fear. But for the longest time, I was convinced–or convinced myself–that I would never be a father. I didn’t want to bring children into a kind of world that I grew up in. I didn’t want to have such a glorious responsibility and screw it up royally. I now know that my own childhood–my own father–was the impetus for such fears. I can say I no longer have these either. I’m still not sure how I feel about the issue of children, but I don’t outright discount it.
Finally, there is perhaps the most twisted artifact from my relationship with my father–and trust me when I tell you this is going to sound very weird. So weird, that I almost hesitate to share it. But, in the end, it was a truth that affected who I am today. When I first encountered my gay-self, I was always curious if I was gay because of my father. On one hand, I hated everything he came to represent in my life. So the knee-jerk reaction is to become the farthest thing away from him. Of course, this pseudo-logic falls apart when I realize that I am attracted to men. If men, as a generalization, are so horrible, why did I want to be with one. It was this circular argument that I fought with during my teen years. Silly thoughts like I wanted to be gay to spite him. I wanted to be gay so I could never have a family. I was gay because I lacked a father-figure. The litany is endless. Of course, it is also completely unfounded and irrational. Unfortunately, a teenage-mind doesn’t always make the distinction. I am fine today with the self-awareness that I am gay because that was the way I was born (whether he had anything to do with it or not).
I think a recent discussion about Father’s Day triggered all of these memories and thoughts. Now I can wryly smile at the absurdity entwined in my formative years. Yet, I do think they did all have one effect on me. They are pieces of my past that made me who I am today–my own man. A man who is responsible for his own mistakes. I do not use my father as a role model or an excuse for who I am today. If nothing else, my childhood and teen years spurred a desire in me to be accessible and open with a younger generation of boys and girls who are grappling with their identities–sexual or otherwise. One of the most rewarding things I do is volunteer my time and effort toward causes that help struggling and newly-out youth. I figure if I can help one person not feel the way I did, then maybe I will have done something good with the wreckage of my past.
I realize I may have left one or two thoughts hanging in this entry. I honestly had no intention of going in this direction when I sat down to write. Some of you may even be uncomfortable with my over-sharing. But, I only hope someone out there can see a part of their own story in mine. More than anything, take away the fact that we may not have had a say in where we came from or how we got here, but the path in front of you is one of your own architecture. Navigate with heart. Navigate freely. If for some unexplained reason you stray from the path you want, know that the power to correct your latitude and longitude rests inside of you.
