Dichotomy - My Dad Was A Great Guy

Everyone liked my Dad. Everyone. He was a quiet guy, but he genuinely treated everyone like they were a good, close friend. Even animals of every sort could tell my Dad was trustworthy, loyal, and an all-around good man. I could tell you so many stories about him. How he married my mom and adopted me before I was only about a year old. About how he never treated me as anything other than his son, despite three other kids of his own blood. About how he was just as much in love with my mother the day she died after 25 years of marriage as the day they met. He loved her, truly, and they treated each other very well. It has set quite a high bar for me and my brothers and sister for our own relationships.

Occasionally, though, a story pops up about my Dad's "wilder days." Stories that, as a gay man, really upset me on a level that I don't think most people understand, especially my cousins, who are all straight.

I remember hearing stories from when I was maybe 12 or in my early teens, and a trip to Kansas City. I think it was for the college graduation of one of my cousins. I wasn't there, so I don't know all of it. I've heard it from a couple of sources, so I think the majority of it is true. I'm sure a lot of alcohol was involved. It usually is with my Dad's family.

My Dad, who was by all accounts straight, decided to cut in to a couple dancing-- and dance with the man. To pick a fight. In one of the accounts, it was known that the man was gay and with his boyfriend in the bar. He did it where his whole family could see, where he knew he'd have "backup" should it come down to it. In fact, I got the very clear impression he wanted it to come down to needing "backup."

I remember my sister laughing at the story. How funny, Dad danced with some fag. Oh, the looks on everyone's faces!

Except I remember being deeply ashamed of him for that. I still am. It sticks with me, and dregs up the shadows of older stories I barely remember hearing from Dad's days as a Marine. Stories of Dad walking up to "some fag" after a few beers and punching him, unprovoked.

Now don't get me wrong, my Dad was not an alcoholic. There are plenty of alcoholics in my Dad's family. Some I knew were alcoholic as a child, some I found out only recently. My Dad was not one of them. In fact, I can barely remember my Dad ever being drunk. He was a social drinker, mostly with his family, full of brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and spouses and honorary family members, simply tons of people. He never drank at home. We didn't even keep beer or wine in the house. He didn't go to the bar after work.

But my Dad was a great guy. Everyone loved "Ducky."

I really can't complain. At the age of 26, I brought to Christmas dinner the man I have spent the last 20 years of my life with. The man I married 2 years ago when it finally became legal. Dad welcomed him with open arms. In the hospital before going in to surgery to have half a lung removed due to cancer, Dad asked if my then-boyfriend would mind calling him "Dad."

So obviously he got over it. He raised three sons, two of whom grew up to be gay, and he never treated us differently after he found out. Hell, if he'd have survived, I have no doubt that he would have walked me down the aisle at my wedding. He loved me. He loved my husband.

I often wonder when, exactly, it DID change. Was I a source of concern for him when I wanted girl's toys for Christmas instead of a soccer ball or army men? I'm sure I was, but how much did it bother him? I still got what I asked for, my parents encouraged us in whatever we wanted to try without hesitation or question.

Why then, when I was in my early teens and it had to be quite obvious to him what I was, even if it wasn't obvious to me what was different about me, did he try to pick a fight with a guy by dancing with him?

How, then, do I reconcile this dichotomy?

People and Places and Photos

Today I had lunch with my brother (the straight one) and my sister and her husband.  My aunt and my step mother were also there.

I like my step mother a lot, but we have such a different history with my father than she did.  Even my aunt doesn't share all of the same stories and memories as we do.  While I like being with them all, I wish my other brother had been there, and I wish it were just the four of us "kids," and maybe our partners.

Mostly we talked about what's going on in our lives now.  Craig's new job, what it's like living in Imperial, Greg's latest theatre enterprise.

It wasn't what I expected, but then is anything, really?

After lunch, we went to Dad's grave site.  On one side it has my mother's markings, and on the other my Dad's.  While it's good to have them both close to each other, it can't be easy for my step mother, who goes there quite often.

I probably won't go to my Dad's grave for quite some time.  I don't like graves.  Not because of issues dealing  with loss, or because of creepy ghost stories.  Mostly because I think they're a waste of space.  I don't need a plot of land to remember my mother and father.  I have my pictures, and I have my memories.

This is a picture of the house I grew up in.  I don't need that either, really.

What I need are my family and my friends.  (Is there really a difference between the two?  The older I get, the less I think so.)

So call me.  We'll do lunch.

And we'll take a picture.  I want to remember you, as you are today.  No excuses about your hair or your weight or the stain on your t-shirt.

Just let me take a picture.  I want to remember  you.

The Way We Were

Just thinking about who we are, who we were, and where we came from.

I found some old pictures, and decided to put the scanner we inherited to good use. Included were some pictures of my family before my brothers were born, some shots of all of my cousins and my sister and I one Christmas, and a couple of shots of my best friend from childhood.

I've bee thinking a lot about things from back then lately.  Ever since my father died, actually.  We had it pretty good, for the most part.  We had a good, emotionally healthy family, and good supportive neighbors and friends.  We didn't have that much money - less and less as time went on, actually, but we didn't know that at the time.  Not really, at least.

This is a picture of me and Christina, my best friend growing up.  We were inseparable as kids.  I have a long history of intense friendships, you see.

Oh, and as a kid, I loved that shirt.  I guess I never did have much taste.  I was so upset when it didn't fit anymore.  One day it just vanished.  I'm sure my mom had something to do with it, of course.

I was horrible to my father from about the time I hit puberty through about my early twenties.  That poor man couldn't even breathe right as far as I was concerned at that age.  It was less about him than it was about me.  I had a lot of things to work out back then.  Hell, who am I kidding?  I have a lot to work out even now. 

I was a pretty cute kid, though.