Notes on Fatherhood

The Greatest Teacher

My father was a carpenter and built our family home with my brothers. He was a union man his whole life, attending the union meetings faithfully. Because he worked with his hands, he instilled in me a deep sense of respect for all people who use their bodies in such a way.

He taught me that the system was not fair and that I should not have “blind trust” for everything that the politicians (the ones with power) had to say because they were rarely in the trenches with the people. When I took my first anti-racism workshop, it expanded my understanding of class to include the impact of race. This new truth and clarity had me dedicate my life to undoing racism in this country.

I am blessed to have many teacher warriors in my life, and it all began with my dad, affectionately known as Mr. Bee. Happy Father’s Day!

—Sandy Bernabei, 61, Ardsley, New York

My Dad, My Coach

My dad was blessed with three daughters. And while he’s never once complained about not having a son, what father wouldn’t want a boy to play catch with every now and then? Luckily for him, my sisters and I were quite the Tom boys—we always loved sports, and it’s thanks to him that we were such great athletes.

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Memories of My Dad

When my father was telling me what he thought, he always said: “GITCID, Andi,” which meant “Give it the consideration it deserves.” This photo of him was taken at Valley Forge Military Hospital about a year after he was shot and injured in the 1944 Invasion of Holland during WWII. He was 25.

My father was a fabulous dancer. He always saved Sinatra’s “New York, New York” to dance with me. I’m sure that he’s dancing up there with his Helen on this Father’s Day (and would save whatever gift I got for him for his retirement).
XOXO to my dad, wherever he may be dancing! —Andi Atamian, 59, Sewell, NJ

An Unforgettable Game

My father and I loved one another but without a lot of the hugs and “I love you’s” that I showered my daughters with when I became a parent. My dad was one of the smartest men I’ve ever known. He could take apart just about anything and put it back together again without breaking a sweat. He’d spend hours doing crossword puzzles and reading the dictionary. He was old school, no-nonsense, Irish-Catholic—quiet, but with a temper that my brothers, sister and I dreaded and always kept in the back of our minds while growing up in the projects of the Bronx. For the most part, the fear of his wrath pretty much kept the four of us on the straight and narrow, despite growing up in a place where we all very easily could have gone down the wrong path.

Dad loved the Yankees and used to take my brothers to games when they were kids. I always asked if I could go and was constantly turned down. Eventually, one Sunday afternoon when one of my brothers couldn’t make it, my dad agreed to take me along—with strict orders that I wouldn’t ask to go to the bathroom every 20 minutes and I would NEVER ask, “When will this be over?” I adhered to his rules and loved every minute! He instilled a love of the Yankees in my siblings and me that we all hold dear, even today.

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Good Call

Recently, I was having a bad day so I called home, hoping to talk to my mom. I couldn’t wait for her to pick up so I could unleash a series of complaints on her sympathetic ears. To my disappointment, my dad picked up the line. Our conversation went like this:

 “Hello?”

“Oh. Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, Abbi. How are you?”

“Pretty good. You?”

“I’m good. What’s up?”

“Uh, nothing much. Is Mom there?”

She wasn’t, and I was ready to hang up—until it hit me: I was doing it again. I was ignoring my father—my sweet, funny, smart, insightful father who has done nothing but support and love me for the last 28 years.

If you’re familiar with this blog, you know that I created it last year when I had the stunning realization that I didn’t have a relationship with my dad. Yes, he was technically in my life, as in he and my mom are still married and I would speak to him briefly on the phone and see him when I came home. But he wasn’t in my life, meaning he didn’t know much about it and I didn’t know much about his.

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An Open Letter

Dear Dad,

Over the years, I have written to you about everything from my everyday encounters with others to abuse I have endured.  Writing is my only means of communication since you died of rheumatic heart disease at only 32 years old. Unlike all of the other notes I’ve penned, this one is not spontaneous. I am taking a seminar where they are teaching me how to live life more powerfully and I have been encouraged to set things right with you. But you died when I was three, so my question is: How can I make things right with a dead person? You didn’t do anything. You died.

People said a lot of different things throughout the  years about this rather unfortunate event in my life—an event I don’t even remember. One thing they would say that bugged me is, “I’m sorry.”  People were always apologizing for your death. I would ask, “Why are you sorry?”  I mean they didn’t cause it or make it happen. They would also say that I had “lost” my father. How could that be?  If I “lost” you, then could I find you some place?

Another wording used was that my father had “passed.” “Passed where?” was my inquiry at that euphemism.  If he passed, then when was he going to pass back my way?

I know people use these euphemisms in an effort to make the word “dead” more tolerable, but when you have a dead father your idea of dead is pretty heightened at a young age.  All you really know is your father is never coming back so there’s no point in sugarcoating it. In the child’s mind, dead is dead and nothing else.

Until we meet again, I will love you forever.

Love,

Kitty

— Kathleen Hughes, 48, Bronx, NY

Is My Son Going to be *That* Kid?

In his extensive three-year-stay on planet Earth, my son Chandler has gone through a few distinct phases. There was the rock star phase…

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The Best of Times

My wife and I separated in January 1993. I was jobless and all three kids stayed with me. It seemed like I never did fatherhood to anyone’s satisfaction anyway, so I decided that starting then, I would do things my way. That’s when my experience as a father flourished.

 We lived in a beat up old trailer on three and a half acres of land back in the woods at the end of a half-mile dirt road. The rulebook got thrown out. There was no TV, no take-out food, no money, and not much heat in the winter. On the outside we had very little, but on the inside we had it all.

 I started working, and the kids learned to cook, clean the house, and do laundry. There was a guitar in the house and they taught themselves how to play it. They read books, wrote poems, and spent time in the woods that surrounded the house.

 I learned so much from those kids—love, compassion, understanding, and forgiveness. My sons and I agree that these were the best times of our lives. 

- John McDermott, Buffalo, WY

Grandpa to the Rescue

I put off seeing my grandfather for a solid five years. Actually, it was more like two, but guilt makes it feel longer. “He repeats himself,” my mom said. “You’ll have to remind him who you are.” I don’t think anyone wants to admit that their idol is a mere mortal who, after almost burning his kitchen down, had to be moved to an assisted living center.

So, shameful and selfish as it may be, I stayed away. I didn’t want his picture in my head to look stooped or old. I didn’t want to see him sick. And that’s what makes last weekend so ironic. When I finally got the nerve to see him, I quickly went from visitor…to patient.

If you’re assuming that this story ends with a burst of emotion and some lofty life-altering realization set to the tune of “The Circle of Life,” you’re mostly wrong. The moral is, probably, that a person who can’t stomach gluten or dairy should maybe not eat a Burger King egg and cheese sandwich and something that looked like an inbred cousin of home fries. Let’s call a spade a spade, people. That meal—not some astounding cosmic occurrence—was what sealed my fate.

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A Tale of Two Men

I come from a long line of bad fathers, many of which I have never met, and two of which I have (albeit, one “meeting” was online). Here are their tales.

My stepfather received his title after he married my mother when I was 11. I never called him dad. I never called him father. I never called him anything but his real name, the name I came to loathe over the years. The terms dad, father, pop, papa, or any variation are earned through love and respect. They are not automatic.

For the first year of marriage, this man filled my head with empty words in an attempt to convince me that he was going to be my dad. I tried to believe him, to convince myself it was true. I made every effort to make this man the mythical “dad” I had heard so much about. But despite his words, his desire to be my father was fleeting (if it ever was there to begin with). Soon, he started having his “own” children with my mother, and the physical and mental abuse began with my mother and me as the targets.

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