LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
BOOKED Solid |
Reviews by Rebecca James |
The Tender BarJ.R. Moehringer (2006)
"I used to say I'd found in Steve's bar the fathers I needed, but this wasn't quite right. At some point the bar itself became my father, its dozens of men melding into one enormous male eye looking over my shoulder [...] My mother and the men [of the bar] believed that being a good man is an art, and being a bad man is a tragedy, for the world as much as for those who depend on the tragic man in question. Though my mother first introduced me to this idea, Steve's bar was where I saw its truth demonstrated daily." J.R. Moehringer grew up in the town of Manhasset, New York, a town that revered its local pubs to such a degree that the connection it claims to F. Scott Fitzgerald's setting of The Great Gatsby is obviously well-founded. According to the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer, the booze that "surged through Fitzgerald's novel like the Mississippi across a floodplain" also colored a great deal of his experiences growing up in that wealthy town. Moehringer himself was not wealthy, however, in part due to the absence of a father in his life. Instead, he was raised with an eclectic and ever-changing menagerie of relatives in his maternal grandparents' home. He became accustomed to the peeling paint, towering weeds, and crumbling structure, but he loved its proximity to Dickens (later Publicans), the tavern just down the street that would come to define a huge portion of his identity and future. Our relationships with adults in a parental role, no matter if they are of the opposite or same sex as us, often affect our later perceptions of what is right and wrong about how these roles were performed. Obviously, I won't argue that two women or two men can't raise a child as lovingly and completely as a straight couple, but I will argue that the role of the absent gender should be filled by someone close to the child, no matter what the sex of the child is (if the parents don't plan for this, the child may choose someone anyway). Ultimately, children from all families should have a rich mix of role models both within the home and outside of it. That disclaimer aside, the role of "father" for many of us is fraught with complications and idealistic beliefs, especially when that role is hauntingly empty, like it was for Moehringer. Moehringer has created an incredibly well-written and engaging journey of his attempts to clarify that role and its effect on his own identity. Uncle Charlie and Grandpa were slippery choices for male role models in the house; Moehringer quickly figured out that he would need more than that to fill the hole that "The Voice," his father, had left behind. A transient alcoholic radio deejay, Moehringer's father appeared only briefly in his life in person, but his deep voice often rang out from the static-filled radio of the young Moehringer. Early on, however, he was introduced to the men of Publicans, which also employed his uncle. From then on, he took advantage of and created any opportunity to visit its dark, musky interior. Once he turned 21, Moehringer joined the ranks of men on barstools inside. Moehringer repeatedly describes his feelings towards the pub and its chosen family members as "contradictory." He is actually just as contradictory, which makes his story all the more interesting. Although he was accepted at Yale, he never felt as though he belonged, not just because of the vast differences in wealth, but also because of something he eventually was able to identify as confidence. The men of Yale seemed to walk with the weight of their fathers' names behind them. They moved like they belonged, like they always knew where they were going. Even with a degree from Yale, Moehringer felt like his education there was a fluke, and that he had somehow "faked" his way through. As a young man, the writer moved through varying stages of success and failure. His time spent drinking and searching for answers at Publicans ebbed and flowed along with his succession of lovers and jobs. He wept at times for not being strong enough to provide enough for his mother, berating himself for how similar he was to his father, even as he struggled to determine exactly whoor what kind of manhis father was or should have been. After one final meeting, however, Moehringer realizes how much of a hold his absent father has had on his definition of who Moehringer was himself and his role as a man in a complex world: "But that morning, rid of lifetime illusions about my father, and about a few other men, and about men in general, I found myself whistling as I patted shaving cream on my jaws, because being disillusioned meant being on my own. No one to worship, no one to imitate. I didn't regret all my illusions, and I surely didn't shed them all in that airport men's room. Some would take years to pare away, others were permanent. But the work had begun." It's amazing how much power we can give to a person we think should have been a major part of our lives, but wasn't. At first, that person is idolized, perhaps idealized. Sometimes, that person is emulated to an exhaustive degree. But ultimately, the truth must come crashing in, and more often than not, I suspect, the weaknesses of that person can threaten to destroy us, if only because our imaginations were bigger than they could ever be. J.R. Moehringer's memoir is a dynamic exploration of what it means to be a good man, whether it be among the well-worn barstools of an army of storytellers or alone in the aftermath of everything life offers. Rebecca James divides her time between teaching in Allentown, PA and reading in Rehoboth Beach, DE. She may be emailed at jamesr@allentownsd.org. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 16, No. 12 August 25, 2006 |