I.I.II – Ex-Father
I.I.II
EX-FATHER
My father was never a man of many words. Unless those words were “no” or “you had that coming”. For the better part of my life he could have just been the family butler with whom I’d be forced to hang out with on occasion, but that’s about it.
He’d come home late from work, pick a fight with my mother, hear about the mischief I had pulled that day and then discipline me. Truth be told, I was quite impish as a child. Okay, that’s an understatement. I was Satan reincarnate. That said, my mom could handle that mischievousness. She’d sit me down and have a talk with me and if that did not work, she’d have other things up her sleeve. Like screaming at the top of her lungs. Or withholding candy from me. Or… I remember she would sometimes tie me down to my car-seat with her pink housecoat belt so I’d stay still just for a minute (Is this even legal? Sorry mom if you’re reading this from jail!) only for me to stand up with the entire thing on my back. Coolest ninja turtle ever.
But my dad? Completely different story. If I was Satan… Well, we can say he was the Jesus to my Satan. I still remember all the fun and chaos that would be going on at home until we’d hear those footsteps. His footsteps. Then the door opens and time stops. Everything goes quiet. Almost too quiet. It also gets chilly. Did I mention it gets chilly? All the hope and happy sucked right out of you. Then the Jesus-dementor hybrid walks in and the despair hits you. As does a flat palm – or, on a particularly bad day, the buckle of a belt. All the laughs and giggles and joy – POOF! Gone.
As mischievous as I was, I always thought that some leniency from his side would have gone a long way to improve our relationship. But there was no leniency, no understanding, no compromise. And so, he remained more of an antagonist in my story. I know I’m being a tad too dramatic, but really and truly, that’s mostly what I remember. I hated him throughout most of my childhood and adolescence, and I know most kids go through a phase like that.
Only mine lasted a little bit longer, and I think it’s because some part of me always knew that he reciprocated my loathing. I was made to feel like not only was I the wrong son, I was also the unwanted one. As if his family was just what he had always envisioned before I had come into the picture. Maybe that’s why my older brother was his favourite. He had had it all before I showed up. The perfect wife, the perfect kid, the perfect family. And then his condom broke and I ruined everything. The audacity!
It was when I found an old family photo album that I started having all these intrusive thoughts. A ‘pre-me family’ photo album. I couldn’t help but notice how happier he looked in those photos. I never saw him smile like that in my presence. Hell, I could count the number of times I had seen him smiling on one hand. But he was smiling in all those photos. That’s when this gnawing feeling in my stomach came to be. “I ruined him” I thought to myself. I could almost empathise with him. Imagine having a nearly perfect life only to have it snatched away by some whiny little punk like me. I’d resent me too, wouldn’t I? To have to sacrifice such a good life for something or someone who might fall short of your expectations. I don’t think I could ever do something like that myself.
I was devastated by my own thought process. Mostly because I could see where he was (probably) coming from. Also cause I could finally understand the gravity of my existence. Maybe that’s why my mother had turned bitter too. Maybe that’s why my brother sought the company of his friends instead of mine. I was the common denominator, the root of all my family’s evils. The rest of them were a happy lot – I was the miserable one questioning everything around him and causing chaos all the time.
Or at least that’s how I felt back then. I know I totally sound like a snivelling, spoiled, ungrateful brat. But that’s I how I truly felt. In hindsight, I could easily make allowances for his emotional shortcomings and brush it all off. Now that I’m older and perhaps somewhat wiser, I do have more perspective on this matter.
To quote one of my best friends, “Parenting doesn’t come with a guidebook”. As kids, we always think our parents are superhuman. Then we start growing up and once we reach their age, we realise we’re still kids ourselves. No one teaches you how to be an adult or a parent. It’s just trial and error. And, given all the hardships we all have to deal with, I should count my blessings and appreciate the fact that regardless of our relationship, I always had food on my plate and a roof over my head – something that’s already more than what most can hope for.
Contrary to what House says, I firmly believe that people do change. Flash-forward to that faithful day when I had my awakening or whatever you want to call it. My father and I were on the roof watering his plants; something he’d usually force me into doing.
I remember myself standing next to him, waiting for a bucket of water to fill up when suddenly I start verbalising words I had no intention of ever saying. Words that came out of my mouth without any active thought or effort. Now this is already uncharacteristic of me. I might be the most impulsive and carefree person in the world, but when it came to speaking to my father, I always planned and rehearsed what to say and how to say it before saying it. But this time it was different. Words just tumbled right out of my mouth. “Dad, I want to become a doctor”. Silence. Some more silence. A little bit more.
The bucket was by now full and over-spilling, the water making a mess all over. “Don’t you need to study different subjects for that?”. I knew what he was alluding to. At the time, I was studying to become a lawyer or a teacher or something – this would mean I’d have to start again from scratch. The idea of having him pay for private lessons was one I never even entertained either. Having to accept help from someone you don’t like is not unlike a kick in the nuts. And out of all the deadly sins, pride has always been my hamartia.
But it didn’t really matter. He was always stingy with me. He would always save a dime if he could. This meant I didn’t really need to brace myself for the obvious “no” that was to come. Man, I could already picture him saying “Heh, good luck trying, son” with that Mephistophelian grin of his. Only this was never really gonna happen – mostly because he was never the grinning type. However, as is customary in my life, the universe just loves to prove me wrong. So of course, he utters a simple “If that’s what you want…”, and with that, he was on board.
I’m not exactly sure of the sequence of events that followed. My eyes might have started to tear up as I stuttered a “Thank you” in disbelief. I might have fallen on my knees sobbing. Or maybe I called my agent saying I finally got the gig? But I never had an agent and my knees are far too weak for me to just haphazardly fall on them, so that’s probably not what happened. I could hardly believe I heard those words. An entire life of what I had used to consider deprivation had had me so ready for yet another “No”.
Turns out that was all my own personal BS. Suddenly everything made sense. All the “no”s? All the discipline? It wasn’t him being a horrible, stingy father. It was him teaching me. Teaching me to prioritise. Teaching me that there’s a hell of a lot of difference between wanting and needing something. And in all those years, this was the very first thing I really needed from him. Apart from the other crap, you know – like food on my plate and a roof over my head.
Over the next couple of years, he’d proceed to pay for all my tuition and all the other expenses that came with my new venture. I’d insist that this was only a loan and that I’d pay him in full once I’d start working, and he’d agree just to humour me.
He’d genuinely show interest in my studies and ask me about my progress. Kinda like most parents do, though to me this was all new. Nobody in my family had ever given a crap about my education. They always took it for granted I’d do well in my exams and eventually go to university, graduate and become one thing or another. I had grown used to their indifference by then. I had grown used to studying right next to my brother as he played video games on maximum volume. Oh, and the symphony of my two dogs as they’d bark their lungs out, with my mother harmonising with her mellifluous screeching in order to shut them up. Good times!
It was me doing the best I could despite them. And suddenly, after all those years I had someone who actually cared, someone who was on my side, someone who was rooting for me. And I felt that. It made me realise that no matter how much I tried to act all aloof, deep down I was still looking for his acknowledgment. And I finally had it. I was working my ass off and he was there to see it. He could see that I was putting his money to good use. That’s how we started growing closer and closer. He still remained a man of few words, but eventually we came to a place where we’d sit next to each other in quiet appreciating each other’s company.
And that is when I started remembering that we did actually share a few happy childhood memories. Like when we’d go on walks or when he’d take me snorkelling. Or when he’d use his company printer to print out pictures of animals for me to collate on a notebook back when we didn’t even have a computer at home. Or when I fell off a ledge and he found me semi-conscious on the ground with my forehead split wide-open. I remember how he had carried me to the doctor, running – crying, I think. “He really does care” I remember myself thinking as he carried me in his big arms like a damsel in distress. He wasn’t all too bad, you know…
Okay, now I want you to close your eyes and imagine flickering red lights and an alarm sound bellowing. “Warning! Warning! Cheesy! Cloying! Cliché! Warning! Warning!”
Ready? I apologise in advance for this… It was through finding myself that I found him. And it was because all of the things that he did for me that he stopped being my father and became my… (I’m sorry) dad. I know right? Vomit-inducing. You have my full support if you want to stop reading after having had to endure all of that. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll do better from now on.