Fathers.

 I had a very rocky relationship with my father as a teenager. A yelling-and-screaming-terrible-things kind of relationship. I called him a hypocrite. He called me a harlot (yeah, "harlot"—my father is far too classy for any other kind of word). My father and I are so incredibly alike that it means we are much more likely to not simply "butt heads", but to run at each other full speed, teeth glaring and angry wit shining. Both of us have a tendency to run our mouths and say things we don't mean. I always wondered, though, if he realized the weight of a father's words.

As I've grown up, I've also gained a much better relationship with my father. I've learned to a) stop being an insane teenage b*tch (most of the time) and b) let his comments roll off my back when he is being a little dramatic, and to not be torn down by them. My father, in turn, has learned to be more sensitive. He's learned (a little more) the power he has.

The interesting thing, however, is that my father is NOT a mean man. By any standards. Nor is he a bad person, or even a bad father. He's just of an older generation. He is one of the last of his kind: a traditionalist with a heart, he is a man that still believes in the full vow of marriage, the sanctity of sex, and that it is perfectly probable that we can hold to the 50's-Leave-it-To-Beaver standards that he grew up with and eventually came to idealize. Sometimes, I'm unsure if my father understands that these ideals and standards, to much of society, are dead.

Seriously though, if you lined my father up against the men in this world, he'd be in the top echelon, no doubt-- especially as a father. He has never once threatened to hurt me, come towards me, or even so much as cursed at me. He spends most of his time telling me how proud he is of me. My father, to be frank, is a NICE guy. He's often described by my friends to be "funny", "smart", "loving" "charming", "jovial", and "fun"—and he is. He is all those things. My father is a good guy.

I used to wonder how he could be two completely different people when he was mad— I mean, we all do that, change who we are around others, but how was he so different? How could he be so loving and smart and easy to work with one moment, and then turn his back and send us into a complete break down between us in literally seconds?

I was about 17 when I began to really understand my father. My grandfather, who is Manic Depressive, was arguing with my dad. I was standing there as my grandfather, recovering from some illness, told my father he was tired of being forced to take the medication doctors were prescribing. He yelled that my father was being weak for forcing him to take the medication, and that he wanted to die. He was tired of living, and he wanted to die. I stood there as I watched my father in a calm, rational voice try to reason with his own father, who he could clearly see wasn't lucid, out of medical suicide. My grandfather said that my father was disrespectful and shameful, just like when he had made us move.

Later, my father explained why he and my grandparents didn't talk for a few months after we had moved. Unbeknown to a 7-year-old me, my grandparents had exploded at my father for moving the family away from our little house in a not-so-nice area of the city to a suburb about an hour away. Even though they knew that my father, in the hopes of enrolling his children in schools with a lower crime rate, was moving specifically for the benefit of his kids, my grandparents thought it was shameful to be taking us away from our family, and away from the people that had helped raise not only him, but both my brother and I. They had told him that he was being snooty for moving to such a nice area, and that he was a disgrace to the family, and they wouldn't speak to him anymore. The vow lasted about two months.

I could see my father was hurt by what had just happened with my grandfather, and with the story he had just shared, but when he saw me staring at him he simply looked at me and said "I had to do what was best for my family." He didn't mean his sisters, his brother, his parents: he meant us. He meant me, my brother, and my mom. Then it hit me:

My father was just trying to do the best he could.

Life is full of all kinds of tough situations and difficult decisions, where the path isn't always clear. There isn't always one correct answer; and amidst all the heat-areas and turmoil of the world, my father is doing the best he can.


And he's doing a pretty damn good job. He himself was raised in a house that was sometimes guilt-ridden, angry, and rancorous, and though he sees the in that, he is not perfect. He often must battle the urge to fall into the pattern his parents set in him, the guilt and the anger, and treat my brother and I with more caring. It is an internal struggle that he does not always win. He's just doing the best he can.

Just like my grandparents, who are also amazing people— my grandfather worked three jobs to support his family, my grandmother teaching herself English so she could not only work a job, but raise 5 kids— weren't perfect either, they just did the best that they could. Yes, sometimes they are ignorant, angry, rancorous, and they falter. Most of the time, though, they are loving, wise, and endlessly giving. Still, however, they are not perfect, but I still love and honor them. Just as it is with my father.

I had spent years being angry at and antagonizing my father when I realized that at least some of the blame fell on myself as well. Sure, I was just being a "teenager", and "adolescent", and I am surrounded by a culture that tells me that these things justify hating my father, being angry at my father. Yeah, I probably do have the right to get pissed at him; but I don't know if I can ever justify or forgive myself for the way that I acted. My father gave up so much so that my brother and I could have the best education that he could provide, so that we could flourish in a world that he only dreamed of. We grew up in a neighborhood with no crime rate. I was never mugged, or beaten walking around town. My brother was not enticed to join gangs. My father risked everything so that my brother and I could lead the very privileged and, in many ways, sheltered life that we did. He may have had his not-so-nice moments sometimes, but he is only a human, doing the best he can.

So the thought of hating the man that did that for us makes me sick inside; and I know that, (may God bless us and have it be a long time from now) when my father dies, I will mourn the years that I lost hating him, the years that I didn't create a relationship with him, the years that I pushed him away, and the days (even the ones in the past week) where I didn't call to tell him that I love him. Because I do.

I know that my father has taught me some things that I may try to avoid, and maybe given me some of his bad habits. Despite this, I can't help but acknowledge not just the love that he gave me, but the fact that he always told US to love. Love was the most important, he said. Despite my father's imperfections, I know that when I go home to see them this weekend, my father will greet me with a hug and a smile, and my mother with a squeeze and a kiss. Despite the mistakes he may make, I know how blessed I am that, when I am upset and hurt, I can easily recall the feel of my mother and father's hands on my back, like shields protecting me in the night.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy. I love you.