06-May-2007: A Letter to my Father (Chapter 2)
Yesterday I cut the grass for the first time this spring. I cut the grass in front of the house
with a push gas mower. That area is about as large as most people's front and back yards combined,
but the slopes and tight corners preclude use of the tractor mower. My gas mower amazes me
every spring; I change the oil, gas it up, and it starts on the first pull. You must be maintaining
it very well. No, actually changing the oil in spring is the only maintenance I do for it. I've
dinged rocks and got fire logs caught in the blades. It just keeps on working every spring—for
more than twenty years now.
And then I get out the lawn tractor for the backyard. It's more than an acre with only a few tight spots, and
the grades are gentle. For about forty-five minutes to an hour, I sit on the tractor carefully guiding it so
that I don't miss anywhere and I don't have to go over the same area twice. It's a simple, mindless job. The
key to success is to go slowly; much like a farmer does when he's ploughing or harrowing a field.
Now there are two things about this that bring you to mind. First is the question of competency. You
must realize by now—at least I hope you do wherever you might be—that destroying a child's
belief in his own capabilities is not exactly the most desirable way to raise children. Why did you
have to belittle and dismiss everything I tried to do? You frequently called me a hopeless weakling. Any task
I undertook was another opportunity for you to tell me I was a failure.
So, when I do tasks like cutting the lawn there is that nagging voice that tells me I can't do this. That
chokes, throttles, transmissions, starter motors, blade heights, are things way beyond my capabilities. In a way
that makes me feel good, because I know I do understand how internal combustion engines work and what all the
various tools, gauges, levers, buttons are for and how they affect the engine. But, you see, I have
to get this feeling of self-confidence by arguing with you.
And it's not just about cutting the grass. Every time the phone rings I have a micro-second's thought that it is my
boss calling me to tell me not to come to work anymore; or that it's someone else who is angry with me. You were
so insistent that I was a failure that it nags at me to this day; though, thankfully, it is now a minor echo. Every day
I prove to myself that I am not as you characterised me.
The second thing that involves you and cutting the grass, is that, when driving the tractor, I cannot hear anything
over the engine, and I watch the front left wheel so closely that my external perceptions are almost shut down. My mind wanders
and sometimes stumbles across events involving you.
Take yesterday: I recalled an event that happened when I was two years old (I know that the "experts" say we
can't recall anything before the age of three, but I know where we were living and the date that we moved from
there. I also use my sister as a marker of time. Did something happen before she was born, or did it happen afterwards?)
On this particular day I saw my Uncle Tom walking up the laneway towards our house. He lived a considerable distance
away, so that was a rare event. He looked very serious. You and I were home alone and you decided to cut my hair while you
and your brother-in-law talked about things I could not understand. Every time you cut my hair with the scissors, I whispered
Ouch. Just a quiet comment on each cut, a punctuation if you will, an acknowledgement that I was losing little
pieces of myself. You see, I thought I was required to say ouch when something happened to me, the same way I
was supposed to say please when I wanted something. Who knows what it means? Just do it. That's how the world works.
Suddenly I received a stinging slap on the side of the head and you shouted, Cut it out! Okay, Dad, why the
slap and shout to a two year old who, until then, was innocently cooperating with the world? Were you so out of
control of your emotions that you couldn't just quietly say, You don't need to say ouch when I cut your hair.
If you had done that, then I probably would not remember the haircut at all and might be, just a smidgeon, less
insecure.
Or, were you so stupid that you thought that hitting and shouting were the only ways to communicate with a child? I don't
think so.
I've remarked to therapists that sometimes I feel as if I am a doorway between the negative violence of my childhood and
my children now. Generally, I've kept that door very firmly shut, though sometimes it opened a crack. But I really cannot
grasp why any parent, especially one as intelligent and educated as you were, would use violence as a language and
belittlement as the message. I always enjoyed talking with and teaching my children. Is the difference because
my experience—especially among the Algonquin—taught me that children are autonomous human beings and
not an appendage of their parents? Is that what you saw in me: a small version of yourself housing all your weaknesses?
I dunno, Dad. It would have been nice if we had this conversation when you were alive. But, I know that
your defensiveness, pride, and guilt would most likely prevented such a conversation. You would probably deny that my childhood even
happened.