My father was
one of the most moral, compassionate people I have ever known. He was also an
avid volunteer, a champion of those who needed. One of my earliest memories is
of being in McDonald's with him. He brought our food to the table, and then
happened to look over at an apparently homeless man who was squeezing ketchup
into hot water to drink. My father asked me to wait and he went and bought the
biggest meal he could. He set it in front of the man, and then came and sat down
and said, "Now I can eat." My
father spent 20 years volunteering at a battered women’s shelter, faithfully
spending 20 hours per week there. He was the only man who had ever been allowed
in the shelter. He made soup, read to children, changed beds. I have been told
that for some women and children, he was the first non-violent man with whom
they had ever spent time.
My father
was charming and witty, and could entertain people with stories and banter. He
was incredibly honest. People used to comment “You’re so lucky to have him as
your father!” And I never knew what to say. Because he was all those things and
more. Unless you were close to him.
My father
had no real friends beyond the women who worked at the shelter and his beloved
friend Christer. He trusted no one. He
presented in many ways as a snob. No one was ever good enough to be his friend.
It is my personal belief that it was he whom he never thought was good enough,
but that was certainly not what he said.
Literally the only people close to him were my mother and I, and some of
his relatives whom we saw only rarely.
I will
confess that every year I struggled to find a Father’s Day card that would fit.
I was simply unable to relate to the warm fuzzy Hallmark dads described. My
father was to my mother and I a very nasty, cruel person. I hesitate to write
that because he was also loyal, loving, generous, and I knew he would have
stood in front of a moving train to save me. I knew he had my back and I knew
he would protect me from anyone or anything that might threaten me. Except him. My father showed many classic behaviours of survivors of the Holocaust.
My father
never lifted a violent hand against either my mother or myself ever. But he was
incredibly cruel verbally. I spent much of my adolescence being told that I was
ugly, fat, a disappointment in every way. This was occasionally said in public
as well. He was vicious to my mother. Never once would he ever admit to ever
being wrong or hurtful. He never apologized. Once after he had publicly humiliated me, I
asked him how he could do that. His response: “If you are humiliated, good.
Life is humiliating. Get used to it.” Even into adulthood he continued to
assure me that I never quite measured up to whatever invisible yardstick he was
using.
I have come
to realize that damage breeds damage. He was, I believe, terrified to allow
anyone to be close to him. His behaviour allowed a distance to be maintained,
because if a person gets too close, they might disappear forever. My years of
training and work in child development can and do explain the early trauma that
caused this behaviour. I am able to explain it clinically in terms of brain development
in the early years. I can talk to you about synaptic pruning and attachment. I
can also bring in a very clinical discussion about inter-generational trauma.
But in the
end, none of it matters. Because he was damaged and he hurt us. And that hurt
lives on inside me, a small child who
still hears those harsh words and believes them. In the last year of his life, as he sank into
dementia, my father was able to acknowledge his behaviour and apologize. I was
able to forgive him. I know he loved me, probably more than anyone else in the
world. Perhaps if he had been able to face the things that shattered his soul,
his life and our lives would have been different. But he could not. And inside
our home, the demon raged.
