LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
Gray 'n Gay |
by John Siegfried |
Father's Day '00 Junior High School humor in the '40's consisted of: Question: When's Mother Day? Answer: Nine months after Father's Day? Response: Ha, Ha, Ha! Obviously Hallmark and the Congress of the United States got their chronology all wrong by creating a May Mother's Day with Fathers' Day four weeks behind. Following Junior High logic that either establishes human infant gestation at eleven months or raises the interesting possibility of chronologic retrograde insemination. It doesn't take an astute observer of the passing scene to note the disparity in focus on moms as opposed to dads. It's ironic that in our paternalistic, persistently male-chauvinist culture, mother is worshiped and father is disposable. And what with sperm banks and turkey basters that's closer to the truth than fiction. For every thousand paintings, photos or sculptures depicting mother and child, there may be one of a father and child. Some of those odds are dictated by the role of Mary in Christianity (Joseph hardly had a walk-on role) or of "Mother Earth" in a broader perspective. Nevertheless, I've always been drawn to father-son relationships in the arts, literature and in real lifeprobably because I was unhappy with my own. When I was a child, and for many years afterward, I felt that my relationship with my father sucked. He met the model of the timefood on the table, a roof over our heads, and shoes on our feetwhich, considering the fact that these were the years of the "Great Depression," was no small accomplishment. But what I wanted was a Dad that played ball with me, attended my school plays, and told me I was special. The only hint of affirmation I could detect was when I went to the corner barber shop for a twenty-five cent haircut (yes, there was a time when a haircut really did cost two bits) and the barber would occasionally reflect my father's pride, shared on a previous visit, that I'd won a prize, or achieved something. I entered adulthood less than thrilled with my relationship with my Dad. It wasn't until I turned forty that the fact that I was born when my father was forty really hit me. At that time, like many gay men of my generation, I was married. I had three children of my own, was consumed with professional challenges and realized that the last birthday gift I wanted was another child. Educating, providing for, and being father to three then teens was all I could handle and the thought of an additional infant at that stage of my life was scary. Yet that was the identical scenario my father faced four decades earlier. I began to see my father in a different light. What I wanted, a touchy-feely-Teddy Bear-Dad, was beyond his capacity to give. It wasn't him or part of his life experience. He had, in fact, not only provided for my physical needs but imparted to me through family osmosis an appreciation for music and literature, a desire to learn and achieve, and genes that tend toward longevity. That's not a bad inheritance. But my ability to see any of that was blocked for years until I slid into the American Indian precept of putting on his moccasins. My relationship with my father changednever into huggy-kissy stuffbut into one of increasing respect and appreciation. And the lesson of my fortyish mini-mid life-crisis has gained in value as I've extended its application. More often than not, the frustrations and failings that I experience in relationships are because I want and expect more than the other person can give. While "If you've got it, flaunt it!" may be one of the gay commandments, the corollary is also true. You can't give what you don't have. Nor can I expect of friends or partners what isn't there to give. Like every good father, I took my kids fishing when they were small becauselike baseball, it's one of the indoctrination procedures in the fatherhood manual. It took several attempts before I realized that there was no way I could teach my children to enjoy fishing, because, in fact, I hated fishing. It immediately brought back memories of being six years old and forced to sit quietly in a row boat for hours on end at Peck's Pond in the Pocono Mountains while my Uncle John fished. Sitting still for minutes was a problem and sitting for hours an impossibility. I hated it. Finally I realized that if I wanted my kids to learn to fish and enjoy fishing, someone else would have to be their teacher. I didn't have a love of fishing to give them. So with Father's Day upon us maybe it's worth reflecting on what we wanted/expected from our parents, what we got, and find ways to bridge the gap. John Siegfried is a retired association executive who resides in Rehoboth Beach. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 10, No. 6, June 2, 2000. |