Tenacious Tiger #7
May 28th, 1994 -- A 42-year-old Flanagan man died Thursday afternoon after the truck he was driving hit a bridge abutment two miles northeast of Flanagan.
It's a date I should never forget. I've already shared the horror I felt that day with you all. But to me, embarassment isn't always some humorous moment for the world to see. Embarassment is also shame. Disgust. Embarassment is one of those things that makes you feel like you're trapped in some room and all eyes are on you, making you feel like you're less of a person for having done something. In my case, my most embarassing moment is having not done something.
My father's death was one of those life altering moments when your predestination receives a massive electric jolt sending you skewed on a new path. Eventhough my parents had been divorced and I only got to see my father two weekends a month, he was still my dad, and like many growing boys, he was my idol. I wanted to be a farmer because my dad wanted to be a farmer. And I wanted to have curly hair, with a little bald spot on the top of my head (my dad called it his "solar panel"). I just wanted to be my dad.
So when he died, I didn't know what I was going to do. On May 28th, 1995, my sister and I went and visited his grave and cried together. We spent some time recalling some of the fun times we had with him. Like, when we were little--and I mean little--we would often take my dad's socks each morning that he was going to wear to work and chuck them from our living room out into our enclosed patio about 30 feet away. Why? I have no clue at all, frankly, but it was fun, and it was our little morning tradition. And my sister and I talked about the times when we would meet our dad at the local coffee shop (there was only one in town) before school each Thursday so we could get donut holes and see my dad (Thursdays were 25-cent donut hole days). Eventhough it was likely against court orders, it was something I loved doing and will always remember.
1996 rolled around and my sister and I went out to the grave again. Finally, the mound of dirt in front of his headstone was getting some nice thick grass on it. We cried some more because that dense, green grass reminded us exactly how long he'd been gone.
1997 came and went, and although we remembered to visit him, my sister and I were both busy doing things in school.
And then it happened. In the middle of June of '98 it dawned on me: we had forgotten altogether about Dad. I just sat in my room that day and bawled. I couldn't believe it. For 11 years, my father was all that mattered to me in life. And poof, just like that, I had forgotten about him. Some people have told me that it's just me "moving on" with my life. But that's not what I want. I don't want to "move on" if that means forgetting who my father is. For Pete's sake, all I needed to do was take a single day to remember my father. To say that I was embarassed is an understatement. I was furious with myself that I could just write off my father's legacy only 4 calendar years after his death.
And then in '99, I forgot what my dad sounded like. It sounds so silly, I'm sure. But your parents' voices are some of those things that should be hardwired into your brain by the time you're five years old. If you're sick at college, just hearing that ever-so-familiar voice over the phone is instantly soothing. But in '99, it becaume quite apparent that I didn't know what he used to sound like anymore, and I cried some more.
Embarassment is one of those things that has two motives, I think. It serves to shame you at first, but more importantly, it's a lesson to you. After the summers of '98 and '99, I started making a special note of that date so I can wake up and say a short prayer for my father. It's my own special way of remembering who he was, and who I hope to be.
It's a date I should never forget. I've already shared the horror I felt that day with you all. But to me, embarassment isn't always some humorous moment for the world to see. Embarassment is also shame. Disgust. Embarassment is one of those things that makes you feel like you're trapped in some room and all eyes are on you, making you feel like you're less of a person for having done something. In my case, my most embarassing moment is having not done something.
My father's death was one of those life altering moments when your predestination receives a massive electric jolt sending you skewed on a new path. Eventhough my parents had been divorced and I only got to see my father two weekends a month, he was still my dad, and like many growing boys, he was my idol. I wanted to be a farmer because my dad wanted to be a farmer. And I wanted to have curly hair, with a little bald spot on the top of my head (my dad called it his "solar panel"). I just wanted to be my dad.
So when he died, I didn't know what I was going to do. On May 28th, 1995, my sister and I went and visited his grave and cried together. We spent some time recalling some of the fun times we had with him. Like, when we were little--and I mean little--we would often take my dad's socks each morning that he was going to wear to work and chuck them from our living room out into our enclosed patio about 30 feet away. Why? I have no clue at all, frankly, but it was fun, and it was our little morning tradition. And my sister and I talked about the times when we would meet our dad at the local coffee shop (there was only one in town) before school each Thursday so we could get donut holes and see my dad (Thursdays were 25-cent donut hole days). Eventhough it was likely against court orders, it was something I loved doing and will always remember.
1996 rolled around and my sister and I went out to the grave again. Finally, the mound of dirt in front of his headstone was getting some nice thick grass on it. We cried some more because that dense, green grass reminded us exactly how long he'd been gone.
1997 came and went, and although we remembered to visit him, my sister and I were both busy doing things in school.
And then it happened. In the middle of June of '98 it dawned on me: we had forgotten altogether about Dad. I just sat in my room that day and bawled. I couldn't believe it. For 11 years, my father was all that mattered to me in life. And poof, just like that, I had forgotten about him. Some people have told me that it's just me "moving on" with my life. But that's not what I want. I don't want to "move on" if that means forgetting who my father is. For Pete's sake, all I needed to do was take a single day to remember my father. To say that I was embarassed is an understatement. I was furious with myself that I could just write off my father's legacy only 4 calendar years after his death.
And then in '99, I forgot what my dad sounded like. It sounds so silly, I'm sure. But your parents' voices are some of those things that should be hardwired into your brain by the time you're five years old. If you're sick at college, just hearing that ever-so-familiar voice over the phone is instantly soothing. But in '99, it becaume quite apparent that I didn't know what he used to sound like anymore, and I cried some more.
Embarassment is one of those things that has two motives, I think. It serves to shame you at first, but more importantly, it's a lesson to you. After the summers of '98 and '99, I started making a special note of that date so I can wake up and say a short prayer for my father. It's my own special way of remembering who he was, and who I hope to be.
posted by Anonymous at 3:43 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home