Bif, my father, your grandfather
June 19th 2022
Fathers’ Day
Dear Toby,
You are a grandson of the father I never really had. To be honest I was always overwhelmed that he was so loved by all his grandchildren, and jealous that he showered so much affection on everyone of you. You idolized him. I did not. I didn’t hate him though I thought that I had every right to. He was a very decent man to the core which became the source of guilt when I did feel some resentment towards him. And I did.
Thankfully at the very end of his life, we both managed to break down some of the walls between us, at least slightly, and I could appreciate his tireless good humor, his persistence, his loyalty to his friends and his quick mind.
When I was growing up, he remained almost entirely opaque. It was more than just that we didn’t know how to speak with one another or that I refused to speak to him. I tried, and I was the kid for god’s sake. We spoke different languages. And I think that he remained to some degree opaque to himself until in later life he had some time and leisure to do what he follow his own lights, and he tried too, when his wife let him, or ordered him to. She did try to engineer some activities together. But it was usually forced.
And painful as working at Ireland Heat Treating
Freud has something to say about sons beating their fathers. or at least in the pop-psychology that was popular in the last part of the last century, it was deemed a bad thing for a son to beat his father.
For his grandchildren he was the man who was not his wife. My mother was what used to be euphemistically called “a difficult woman” meaning she was hard as nails. Everyone knew that and, like any fact of life, you denied it at your peril.
She claimed that because dad had a hands off approach to child rearing, it all fell to her, and her standards were higher than any of us could possibly attain. Elen probably fulfilled them more than anyone, and that took its toll because if you didn’t meet all the expectations exactly, you were doubly wrong because you were rebellious; John had dyslexia which was his “Get Out of Jail” card. By the time your mother was born, like an afterthought, most of the battles had been fought and mother seemed to have spent most of her psychological energy.
I always felt that I was both my mother’s and my father’s greatest disappointment. I was gay, and I knew I was gay though I never allowed myself to acknowledge it. That was strictly forbidden. I think both parents knew that I was gay. Over and over they threw me into heterosexual waters to see if I’d sink or swim. I didn’t drown, but I still swam a breast stroke. Dad always always shook my hand, at least after I was 6 or 7. I tried to be what he wanted because that is what kids do. I was as good in school as I could be, but not math and science. I tried as hard as I could at sports but I was uncoordinated; dad had overcome having two left hands which mother blamed for his stutter so I obviously just wasn’t trying hard enough. I did eventually swim from one end of the pool to the other, but not strongly. I skied but fell, and even shattered my femur so badly it required a steel dowel from knee to ankle to heal; I couldn’t play tennis, couldn’t catch or throw a ball. I was beat up on the playground, but I was the boy that Miss Comer always called on to demonstrate any dance step at the Patterson Club.
I try not to dive too deep into feeling sorry for myself. It is a dead end though I do think that owning up to the fact that in many ways gay men and women of my generation, and more so that of your great uncle, had to grow ourselves up in spite of having neither a guide nor a roadmap.
And I loved to sail. When we first started to sail Lightnings, it was decided that dad would skipper on Saturdays and I would skipper Sundays, and the one who did best, would sail in the competitive races. I always won. I was a damned good crew too. Elen was the third, forward crew and there was some resentment on her part, I think. that she didn’t get to sail herself.
I always felt the pressure of having to be a good boy when the best was never good enough. It sparked a rebellion in me. The new Hallmark moment when a kid finally gets the courage to come out and the understanding parents say, oh we always knew but we love you anyway. I didn’t come out until I was almost 30 and the response I got was, after all the work we put into trying to make you straight, you continue to disappoint us. The battle was far from over. My mother was not a person to accept defeat. I was pissed.
When the tears come, they come. Of course I know that this was not my fault, not in the slightest, and probably it was not Bif’s fault either. Perhaps he just didn’t know how to be the father of a gay son, but I wonder if he felt it was his fault; or if his personal homophobia was too deeply seated for him to accept me. Of course with his brother it was different. He recognized Donnie as gay, and in a relationship with Bill probably as soon as he met Bill. But they didn't have to be close, and Donny didn’t have to fill the projections of a father’s dreams. It fell to Donny, as with many gay kids, to take care of their father, so dad was spared that burden even though it was light. I think he appreciated that. Not that he couldn’t have been the kind of son that his father needed, but it would have taken something as he never really was my father, the skills were not second nature.
Fathers’ Day
Dear Toby,
You are a grandson of the father I never really had. To be honest I was always overwhelmed that he was so loved by all his grandchildren, and jealous that he showered so much affection on everyone of you. You idolized him. I did not. I didn’t hate him though I thought that I had every right to. He was a very decent man to the core which became the source of guilt when I did feel some resentment towards him. And I did.
Thankfully at the very end of his life, we both managed to break down some of the walls between us, at least slightly, and I could appreciate his tireless good humor, his persistence, his loyalty to his friends and his quick mind.
When I was growing up, he remained almost entirely opaque. It was more than just that we didn’t know how to speak with one another or that I refused to speak to him. I tried, and I was the kid for god’s sake. We spoke different languages. And I think that he remained to some degree opaque to himself until in later life he had some time and leisure to do what he follow his own lights, and he tried too, when his wife let him, or ordered him to. She did try to engineer some activities together. But it was usually forced.
And painful as working at Ireland Heat Treating
Freud has something to say about sons beating their fathers. or at least in the pop-psychology that was popular in the last part of the last century, it was deemed a bad thing for a son to beat his father.
For his grandchildren he was the man who was not his wife. My mother was what used to be euphemistically called “a difficult woman” meaning she was hard as nails. Everyone knew that and, like any fact of life, you denied it at your peril.
She claimed that because dad had a hands off approach to child rearing, it all fell to her, and her standards were higher than any of us could possibly attain. Elen probably fulfilled them more than anyone, and that took its toll because if you didn’t meet all the expectations exactly, you were doubly wrong because you were rebellious; John had dyslexia which was his “Get Out of Jail” card. By the time your mother was born, like an afterthought, most of the battles had been fought and mother seemed to have spent most of her psychological energy.
I always felt that I was both my mother’s and my father’s greatest disappointment. I was gay, and I knew I was gay though I never allowed myself to acknowledge it. That was strictly forbidden. I think both parents knew that I was gay. Over and over they threw me into heterosexual waters to see if I’d sink or swim. I didn’t drown, but I still swam a breast stroke. Dad always always shook my hand, at least after I was 6 or 7. I tried to be what he wanted because that is what kids do. I was as good in school as I could be, but not math and science. I tried as hard as I could at sports but I was uncoordinated; dad had overcome having two left hands which mother blamed for his stutter so I obviously just wasn’t trying hard enough. I did eventually swim from one end of the pool to the other, but not strongly. I skied but fell, and even shattered my femur so badly it required a steel dowel from knee to ankle to heal; I couldn’t play tennis, couldn’t catch or throw a ball. I was beat up on the playground, but I was the boy that Miss Comer always called on to demonstrate any dance step at the Patterson Club.
I try not to dive too deep into feeling sorry for myself. It is a dead end though I do think that owning up to the fact that in many ways gay men and women of my generation, and more so that of your great uncle, had to grow ourselves up in spite of having neither a guide nor a roadmap.
And I loved to sail. When we first started to sail Lightnings, it was decided that dad would skipper on Saturdays and I would skipper Sundays, and the one who did best, would sail in the competitive races. I always won. I was a damned good crew too. Elen was the third, forward crew and there was some resentment on her part, I think. that she didn’t get to sail herself.
I always felt the pressure of having to be a good boy when the best was never good enough. It sparked a rebellion in me. The new Hallmark moment when a kid finally gets the courage to come out and the understanding parents say, oh we always knew but we love you anyway. I didn’t come out until I was almost 30 and the response I got was, after all the work we put into trying to make you straight, you continue to disappoint us. The battle was far from over. My mother was not a person to accept defeat. I was pissed.
When the tears come, they come. Of course I know that this was not my fault, not in the slightest, and probably it was not Bif’s fault either. Perhaps he just didn’t know how to be the father of a gay son, but I wonder if he felt it was his fault; or if his personal homophobia was too deeply seated for him to accept me. Of course with his brother it was different. He recognized Donnie as gay, and in a relationship with Bill probably as soon as he met Bill. But they didn't have to be close, and Donny didn’t have to fill the projections of a father’s dreams. It fell to Donny, as with many gay kids, to take care of their father, so dad was spared that burden even though it was light. I think he appreciated that. Not that he couldn’t have been the kind of son that his father needed, but it would have taken something as he never really was my father, the skills were not second nature.
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