Memories of My Father Figure
[AdSense-A]
By Bethany “BST2” Armstrong
While I’m sifting through my trauma, trying to excise the bile and pus from my soul, I’m finding healing memories as well. My Dad recently was diagnosed with cancer, had surgery a week later, and is now preparing for chemo and radiation, in the midst of a pandemic. Yoinks.. It’s time to poke at the Daddy Wound, get that pus out, and focus on healing. We both deserve it.
My humor is shaped from my Dad’s brand of mischievous, dark, more-than-a-little mean from time-to-time, wickedly witty, observations of humanity. I was often the target of his mirth but I tickled his funny bone every time I turned it back on him.
I was always an insomniac to some degree. The advent of Nick At Night was a Saving Grace during turbulent teen years. The Patty Duke Show was one of my favorites and a catch-phrase from it was “Father Figure”. The “father figure”/Dad/Uncle of the show would display annoyance when he was called “father figure.”. A look of “I know you’re insulting me but I’m not quite sure how” on his face. A real Cats in the Cradle moment.
Father Figure has such a lovely sound, the alliteration of it, the beat of the syllables. Even as a young teen I was amused by the Parental Unit’s befuddlement at the slightly subtle dig. Dad is the name for a cuddly, involved, emotionally mature masculine parental unit whereas the name Father demands respect and authority. The word Figure means a representation of something. It’s literally saying, “I acknowledge that you are the representation of a masculine authority over me” and it implies the character both appreciates and resents it. It says, “You’re no Dad but you’re an acceptable stand in.”
I half-expected it to go right over his head the first time I sniped it out. My dad is a farmer, a man’s man, a literal redneck. And I was a defiant, chubby lil hellion who defied understanding.
It did not fly over his head. I got a narrowing of eyes, a grunt of amusement, and a nod acknowledging “I may not be the father you want kid, but I’m tryin’.” I got a taste of respect and a lesson about underestimating the intellect of others.
Most of my happy memories of my masculine authority figure are flashes. Playing catch in the front yard. Showing animals in 4-H. Homemade ice cream in the draft horse tents at the fairground. Camping. Chasing escaped animals. Riding a motorcycle. Hearing him laugh about how brave (foolhardy?) I was trying to surf down our hill next to the front door on a dinky plastic sled. Hay rides. The joy he gets from giving Christmas gifts. Listening to really bizarre songs – My Uncle Used to Love Me But She Died – and watching so many sitcoms, and stand-ups, and Westerns, and Leslie Neilson movies while eating popcorn with butter and parmesan for dinner. Though the majority of my memories are of his absence, his distance; these tiny blips of wholesome memories are glitter on a blank canvas.
I hope I can focus on the glitter, the beauty of what he gave me. How he found humor in my rebellions and encouraged my independence. How he slipped me a $20 for gas here and there when I got my first apartment. How every time I visit as an adult, I leave with tons of meat. How he called me “Bessy-gator” as a term of endearment. How he asked me goofy questions and really listened to my answers. How he allowed me to save face and preserve my dignity sometimes while others he mocked me for having to “eat crow.” How he gave me a taste for Bloody Mary’s and White Caucasians. How he gave a narrow-eyed chuckle every time I called him “Father Figure”
My Dad is not a simple man. He’s both stoic and mischievous. He’s charming; he can talk to anyone and make them feel at ease. He’s not the kind of man to say “I love you” or “I’m proud of you.” He’s the kind of man who shows it and leaves it for you decipher, He’s a good man. He didn’t always know what to do with a daughter like me, but he tried so very hard. The glitter is pretty gorgeous.
[si-contact-form form=’2′]