A series of lessons and memories of my father being the worst greatest dad in the world that made me the person and parent I am today. I truly wish he could have been appreciated before his time ended. I wish he could have seen the results of his ‘worst greatest’ parenting…

A lesson on empathy and appreciation on vulnerability.

I know. I was lucky. Too many go with no words or support from a man who chose to stay. I knew, at such a young age, 4 or 5, it was the exception, not the rule, to have a man come home each and every night tired, worn, and defeated by what, in todays standards, would be totally unreasonable. There really isn’t many left like him today. Our opinions on responsibility and second chances have changed dramatically in our more democratic world. Which he wasn’t fond of at first, but after having three daughters and the many failures of republican capitalism, he wanted a better world for his daughters. Independence and success. He would say often “you can do anything men can do. Probably better because you’ll take more pride in your male dominated job, and that’s what is missing in todays world. Pride”. These memories of the things my dad said to me was only the beginning of a long list of lessons he seemed to have pre-written to make absolutely certain every lesson he had to teach was taught before his time ended, and my responsibility to pass his wisdom on to anyone so unfortunate to not hear them directly from him. Lessons on lying, lessons on crying, lessons on God, lessons on surviving, lessons on fighting, lessons on dying, lessons on winning, lessons on losing. lessons on lessons… He was a walking nursery rhyme. The narrator of my mind. Like the voice of Samuel L. Jackson in many Hollywood movies. My dad wasn’t academically inclined but encouraged me to be both book smart and street smart. The street smarts gained from moving more times I can count on both hands and going to seven different schools, one completely different from the last. I quickly learned to read a room and profile accurately. I was a chameleon. Adapted to change in a moments notice.

Growing up in the coal cracker regions in north Pennsylvania, he barely knew how to read. Undiagnosed dyslexia, rearing it’s troublesome head, genetically, through my son, kept him from achieving any real success. Coming to age in a time of great uncertainty, just missing the Vietnam draft but wasnt missed during the back-draft. “Join the military! Help bring home the boys drafted”! I sense an element of guilt mongering was a common theme back then for young men like my dad. Young men spared by a mere few years. If so many boys gave their lives without even wanting to then surely you can give a few years in respect. You weren’t a real man if you didn’t go willingly. The draft was a devastating choice that never should’ve happened in the first place. Our government wanted to quickly clean up their mistake by offering an “honorable” role without needing a highschool diploma. With no more options after the violent death of his dad, at the age of seventeen, dropped out of highschool and signed up to gain the wisdom of the world, but sacrificed his teenage right to party, college, and debauchery we all take for granted. Funny, he insisted I, nor any one of his daughters, never ever join the military. These reasons left unknown. Forever lost in the cloud of unconscious thoughts. These heavy weight pressures, burdens, and poverty loaded memories weighed heavily on his mind day to day. And the horror of it all was, if in fact PTSD was to blame, it was from his childhood. Not the many years he spent in the military.

My dad was an alcoholic. Not the same kind of alcoholic as his dad. No no. His dad was a drunk and drank himself straight into the grave. A grave, I’m sure, doesn’t exist. Poorness didn’t carry the benefits of graves, cozy funeral home viewings, or even an urn to store your ashes for later walks down memory lane or to come across during holidays or family events. No honor in being a coal cracker alcoholic in the 1960’s. My dad, instead was more of a binge drinker. Solid as a rock 60 percent of the time. A little shakey 10 percent of the time and completely shit faced for the remaining 30 percent, and that was as a whole. Over his lifetime. He had better years than others. Had strokes of blue collar progress, then in a blink of an eye, all would be lost to a failed sobriety test or to a string of unfortunate circumstances piling up and crashing down like a life size Jenga game. I always wondered of the man he could of aspired to be if given the same chances boys are given today. All the counseling, public assistance, federal aid, rehab, ARD chances we’re all extended now? This being one of them lessons he taught… stop feeling sorry for yourself and stop thinking the world owes you something. We must pay for our debts. It is what it is. Then you move on.

I was probably 5 for this lesson, as I stood beside him, after he demanded I get up from my bed at probably two or three o’clock in the morning after a night of defeat, drinking his memories away, and untie his boots and get him a can of beer from the mini fridge he worked every day to barely keep full. In his drunken stupor, his shoulders hung heavy from the weight of shame and grief so familiar to him, would be why I would remain for as long as he allowed me to or for as long as he stayed awake. He would ask me questions about my day or what my favorite things were. I would entertain him with colorful answers. Sometimes he would insist I do something I needed to learn. Like tie my own shoes. Or he would watch with great interest as I dismantled a malfunctioning toy to see what was inside causing the problem with an old screw driver he had given to me months before after noticing my complete elatedness to its purpose. Something my mom disapproved of but tolerated. If any conversation led to a subject that caused my sadness or self loathing he would demand I not cry about it. And when I say demand I mean grab ahold of me and with force tell me if one tear fell from my eyes I was weak and I wasn’t the daughter he raised. I know it sounds harsh but his intent was to instill strength, and tears are only for the most darkest moments. Moments I hadn’t even come close to experiencing at five years old. He almost always lightened things up by promising to get donuts in the morning or take me and my older half-sister to the playground for a day of fun, almost never able to keep that promise. Except for the donuts. He usually kept that promise.

After, what I’m sure seemed like a lifetime to him, but probably only 30 to 40 minutes, after finishing that last beer, he turned and looked at me as if his head must’ve weighed 500 pounds. His eyes, so tired, turned down on the outside corners like that of a Bassett hound, a cigarette hanging gingerly from his mouth. I remember with great detail the amount of hair he had grown out. His full beard and mustache and dark hair flaring out from under his well worn Temple Tire baseball cap that was under some serious stress holding back the copias amounts of thick hair. A genetic gift I’m pleased to say is one of my greatest features, minus the facial hair. His gleem of light for his tiny daughter quickly dashed away with only a moments thought from times ago. He asked me, “why do you stay beside me”? “Why do you love me so much”? I remember saying with no hesitation and wonder, as if asked why I awaken each morning hungry for breakfast, “because your my dad”! I remember the slighted smile. The return of some of that gleem, even if just a little, to the charm of my childness. And then just like that, as if a sudden awareness of his place as a father, and remembering his early morning shift quickly was approaching, stood up and said “Your ok kid. I’m tired. I’m going to bed. You better get to sleepin’ or no donuts in the morning”. I watched, as I so often did, him stagger without missing a step, collapsing on the couch and almost instantly falling to sleep indicated by the mighty snoring that lullibied me to sleep most nights. But no matter his condition in the morning, or his driver’s license status, I could count on him to wake up, recover from whatever pain or sorrow he battled from time to time, and return to his post as a husband, dad, brother, son, employee, and every other role he was expected to fulfill, and return home. Probably sober this time. Have dinner with his family, and this time go to bed early. I knew, as insignificant and easily overlooked as many children were, I gave great inspiration and drive to a man who, with struggles and addiction, devoted the better half of each day to my well-being. Empathy. The lesson here and reminiscent to some therapy sessions I had many years later. A time when I thought the world evolved around me and my losses. I sat there pondering over memories of all the imperfections my parents revealed, sometimes with great remorse, I’m sure. But still, there I sat, at 23 years old, telling my story like I did every two weeks. Of course, not the same story over and over again. But, I’m sure it sounded like the same story. Everyone has a story to tell. We all think our own story is more important than another’s. To my dismay and complete heartache, I was made to face the harsh realities that I so dismissively ignored. The therapist, waiting for the right moment, stated, he believed nurture, rather than nature, was a much greater force on a person’s up-bringing and resulting outcome as an adult and parent. It’s important we remember, or at least, reflect a little, on what parenting our parents had in order to truly understand the influences that shape and mold a person’s capabilities, whether it be a skill, or lack of one, and the changes or improvements they may be struggling to make because of their own lack of proper guidance. “We can only be expected to be as good at parenting as our own parents were to us. Any improvements are an indication of true desire to be better. A choice and not the expectation”. The image of my mom sleeping on the floor under the bed of her dying mother at the age of seven, didn’t have a mom to learn from. I’m aware of her moments of good parenting far exceeded any of my moments. The unspeakable acts imposed upon my dad during his adolescence, not to mention, his complete disappointment and destruction of any trust after his mother finally left his drunken dad only to be horrifically tormented by the constant comings and goings of new boyfriends his mother started bringing home, and the abandonment he must’ve felt when at only the tender age of 15 was out casted back to his drunk father because the boyfriends were more important. His coming of age and resistance to any poor treatment made those boyfriends not wanna stick around, came to mind. This is when, I think, I became a grown-up. This very crucial moment when that long lost lesson on empathy became virtue. When in the end that’s all we have and that’s all we need. When there’s nothing valuable left and empathy and forgiveness, like the weight of water, is felt more than seen. A shockingly invisible force that can shape and mold a landscape, destroy everything in its path, and be the most beautiful sight in the world.

The real desire of every parent, I believe, is to receive the empathy from the children they instilled it in. If he was still with us I know he would be pleased to know some of those late night drunken episodes, which, I know, wreaked havoc on his conscience, weren’t so damaging after all. They were real moments of parental adulting. Alcoholic gibberish turning into words of wisdom I cherish and often remember when I’m trying to instill his purpose into my own kin. Something I should be ever so grateful for receiving, when so many go without. Drunk, or not, he had a responsibility to attend to. He didn’t allow his addiction to dictate his ability to teach his kids right from wrong, taking accountability, having empathy, and being tough. That is the true accomplishment of successful parenting no matter it’s delivery mechanism. I can relate now. With two adult children of my own, I hope in my many bad parenting moments, at least one of them will turn out to be a moment of positive influence. Two lessons in one. If anyone deserves a break, it’s your parents. As long as they always brought the donuts when they promised… at least, most of the time.