Thanks, Dad.
Jun. 19th, 2011 10:01 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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You know, I've been thinking about this all day, and I'm not sure what really fits this question. I love my dad, but he's not one for giving advice. The conversations I have with him usually center around his Irish-English dictionary (which he's been writing for over thirty years and will probably never be complete), linguistics in general (since I have an English degree), politics or religion. I learned long ago not to argue with him about the later two topics, mostly because it's pointless. He talks at me more than with me, and I have no reason to try to get him to see it my way because he's convinced half the time that I'm a terrible democrat whose mind has been warped by going to college, which isn't all that true, given my wavering stance on many different areas of thought, but that's neither here nor there. (Besides that, he believes all philosophy is moral relativism, and that doesn't sit well with the part of me that minored in philosophy. Don't even get me started on how much he hates lawyers.) The one time I tried to explain my stance on religion, he told me I had "dangerous thoughts" and implied I was going to hell. That would be assuming such a place exists, but try explaining that to a devout Irish Catholic who has only grown more religious as the years have passed.
However, an incident in high school stands out to me. I guess I should really call it THE incident in high school because it was the one time I really got in trouble. I was around sixteen. My older sister talked to a boy on the internet who lived in the next town over, and when they met in person, I was her unwitting wing-woman. This meant while she got to know the guy, I was stuck with his friend in the backseat of the guy's beaten up blue Volvo. (Incidentally, this is how I got my first kiss, and it was the start of one of the oddest relationships I've had to date.) Anyway, we drove out to meet them fairly often, and we'd hang out with their friends; they'd smoke; and eventually, we'd all drink, usually around a bonfire (real small-town cliche-like). One evening, the parents of one of their friends were out of town, so they threw a huge party like the teenagers we all were. My sister and I swigged vodka straight from the bottle (because we could do things like that and it still seemed cool in those days), and within an hour, we were both trashed. Our internet friends drove us to the nearest 7-11, called our parents (because I somehow slurred out the number to them), then left us.
My mom, being the disciplinarian and all-around parent in that relationship, was predictably pissed and got our stumbling asses home, spent half the next day giving us the silent treatment, and then doled out the lectures and castigation we both deserved. On top of feeling horrible because I was hungover, I slunk downstairs to try to get relief from the intense shame and disappointment that hung thickly in the air. I hid in the basement behind the only computer that connected to the internet (as we were a dialup family in those days).
I mention this because I don't remember my dad being around at all during this incident until that moment. He was fairly tight-lipped and tended to leave the room whenever mom was handing out punishments. This was pretty much the way it was my whole childhood, aside from him yelling at my siblings and me to turn off lights when we left the room and not to stomp our feet or make lots of noise overhead while he was working on his dictionary in the basement. (Well, that and generally not being a fan of us watching The Simpsons or Southpark or anything we listened to besides Cake, but that's another story.) But this day, he walked in the room (which is also where he worked), very quietly told me that everyone makes mistakes and that it would be alright, and walked back out.
My dad is fairly absent and has always had other priorities. We don't talk much; and we agree on even less; but that's the sort of thing I think about when anyone asks me about fatherly advice-- that almost non-existent voice in the background saying that even when you've messed up royally and it doesn't look like you'll ever make it right, it will eventually turn out okay.
Thanks, Dad.
You know, I've been thinking about this all day, and I'm not sure what really fits this question. I love my dad, but he's not one for giving advice. The conversations I have with him usually center around his Irish-English dictionary (which he's been writing for over thirty years and will probably never be complete), linguistics in general (since I have an English degree), politics or religion. I learned long ago not to argue with him about the later two topics, mostly because it's pointless. He talks at me more than with me, and I have no reason to try to get him to see it my way because he's convinced half the time that I'm a terrible democrat whose mind has been warped by going to college, which isn't all that true, given my wavering stance on many different areas of thought, but that's neither here nor there. (Besides that, he believes all philosophy is moral relativism, and that doesn't sit well with the part of me that minored in philosophy. Don't even get me started on how much he hates lawyers.) The one time I tried to explain my stance on religion, he told me I had "dangerous thoughts" and implied I was going to hell. That would be assuming such a place exists, but try explaining that to a devout Irish Catholic who has only grown more religious as the years have passed.
However, an incident in high school stands out to me. I guess I should really call it THE incident in high school because it was the one time I really got in trouble. I was around sixteen. My older sister talked to a boy on the internet who lived in the next town over, and when they met in person, I was her unwitting wing-woman. This meant while she got to know the guy, I was stuck with his friend in the backseat of the guy's beaten up blue Volvo. (Incidentally, this is how I got my first kiss, and it was the start of one of the oddest relationships I've had to date.) Anyway, we drove out to meet them fairly often, and we'd hang out with their friends; they'd smoke; and eventually, we'd all drink, usually around a bonfire (real small-town cliche-like). One evening, the parents of one of their friends were out of town, so they threw a huge party like the teenagers we all were. My sister and I swigged vodka straight from the bottle (because we could do things like that and it still seemed cool in those days), and within an hour, we were both trashed. Our internet friends drove us to the nearest 7-11, called our parents (because I somehow slurred out the number to them), then left us.
My mom, being the disciplinarian and all-around parent in that relationship, was predictably pissed and got our stumbling asses home, spent half the next day giving us the silent treatment, and then doled out the lectures and castigation we both deserved. On top of feeling horrible because I was hungover, I slunk downstairs to try to get relief from the intense shame and disappointment that hung thickly in the air. I hid in the basement behind the only computer that connected to the internet (as we were a dialup family in those days).
I mention this because I don't remember my dad being around at all during this incident until that moment. He was fairly tight-lipped and tended to leave the room whenever mom was handing out punishments. This was pretty much the way it was my whole childhood, aside from him yelling at my siblings and me to turn off lights when we left the room and not to stomp our feet or make lots of noise overhead while he was working on his dictionary in the basement. (Well, that and generally not being a fan of us watching The Simpsons or Southpark or anything we listened to besides Cake, but that's another story.) But this day, he walked in the room (which is also where he worked), very quietly told me that everyone makes mistakes and that it would be alright, and walked back out.
My dad is fairly absent and has always had other priorities. We don't talk much; and we agree on even less; but that's the sort of thing I think about when anyone asks me about fatherly advice-- that almost non-existent voice in the background saying that even when you've messed up royally and it doesn't look like you'll ever make it right, it will eventually turn out okay.
Thanks, Dad.
