Father's Day

I have to confess that no matter how hard I've tried to distance myself from some of my dad's behavior, there is no denying it.  My mom is as cool as a cucumber, but my dad, all moist-eyed and sensitive, all curious and excitable, all passion and rage and angst and joy, is me.  A girlfriend of mine has told me repeatedly to cherish the time with my parents, to celebrate and relish who we are to each other while we can as both of her parents are no longer living.  I have listened, though often not heard her because I am all moist-eyed and sensitive, all passion and rage and angst and joy.  I am, in so many ways, the Mini to his Me. 

He and my mother visited this Father's Day, stayed in our home for the first time (not including Barbados which was not actually ever our home), spent real adult time, played with the girls, went on our errands, meandered through our town, and enjoyed ourselves together.  We visited with family friends and I felt adult and grown and proud to be with them.  I am not sure if it is my midlife crisis which looks more like actualization than crushing breakdown, my recent interest in meditation and reiki, my return to dance, or the shifting of our collective consciousness, but I have found acceptance of who and what I am and therefore in who and what everyone around me is.  I have found the desperate need to hold on to past hurts and wounds to be exhausting and have forgiven them, though more than likely not forgotten them. (I am, after all, a Penn.)

I have spent much of my life recognizing my role as a member of my family and feeling that I was failing miserably.  No matter how this thinking came about, I felt overwhelming pressure at being "the daughter of/big sister of/first grandchild of."  The burden of carrying on the line of two incredible families, the credits, achievements, and successes of which are extraordinary by any standard, but given that they were done by those poor and black, largely undereducated, during the dark days of our country's history, made them mythic, epic, heroic.  I felt like a straight up fraud.  Middle class, indulged, allowed my mood swings and artistic tendencies.  I didn't have to give up my dreams, whatever they were, in order to put food on the table or a roof over my head.  The fight over outright racist and sexist policy was fought on their backs while they were striving for the promised American dream.  I had a kind of survivor's guilt because I did not struggle to achieve what was seemingly handed to me, because the racism, sexism, and white privilege that I faced was more subtle, because I had been walked to third base by a family that persevered in getting into the stadium and onto the field.  Though I know now that I did not need to apologize for myself, I was then so sorry and ashamed.

Under the weight of that, my father and I would look at each other, mirror to reflection, reflection to mirror and declare, under our breaths, "What?"  There was so much expectation, so much want, so much need and no real way to express it.  So there was moist-eyed, sensitive, curious, and excitable passion, rage, angst, and joy.  I would cower in his presence, hold my breath, not feel safe expressing myself as I did when "away from home."  I was miserable to be around, was either pulled in and tense or exploded when provoked(like someone I know), hated family get-togethers because I did not feel like I could be myself, because what I reflected back to Mr. Penn was too much for him to see.  It might even still be. 

But there are new facets to this diamond.  The glittering, fascinating shine of my children.  And in my children and how they are being raised and how they behave and love and give, I believe that my dad and I can share something, love something together.  We can see that part of each other that loves, that cares, that is all moist-eyed and longing.  Like two shy, nervous baby birds we just might dare to fly, helping each other do so but also concentrating on our own flight.  As I see him soar, I feel joy.  He might not tell me, but he feels the same for me.  We have this story to tell, this epic tale in which to contribute.  Like that game where one person starts the story and another picks it up where he leaves off and then another picks up and so on and so forth until an incredible tale is told, we are living and weaving our lives. 

We are much alike, but not entirely the same.  My father wanted to be a journalist but that gig did not pay well enough for a young man who had the obligation to help put his younger siblings through school as his older siblings had done for him.  He has something to say but often chooses his words carefully, sparingly, and certainly does not express his feelings or wear his heart on his sleeve.  I, on the other hand, did not have that financial responsibility, did not make a choice based on monetary need, cry, laugh, love, freak, and respond to every stimulus, and even when I might keep my mouth shut, cannot do so!  I want to say something; I have to, come what may.  I respect his choices, his sacrifices, and know that he loves us.  I hope, hope, hope that he feels the same for me because this Father's Day, I allowed myself to love him like I did as a girl.  With wonder, curiosity, awe, and the first twinkling of autonomy that a toddler shows when she realizes that she and her parents are not indeed the same entity.  It was truly a great day to celebrate having and being a father.



(c) Copyright 2013.  Repatriated Mama: Back to the Suburban Grind.