The Father Story: Medusa's Daddy

I have been wanting to talk about him for a long time. Nearly 5 years after his death, I recently had my first dream since he died a wretched death from cancer. This is about my father, Sam.

I remember as a little girl being excited when he came home from a hard day of working. He owned his own logging company. That was a long time ago. He mightbring home a treat, like a Whatchamacallit or Big League bubble gum. Those memories I cherish.

I was still quite young when I realized he was violent. Sam was an alcoholic. Sometimes, if he was unhappy with the supper my mom cooked, the house being dirty, or our presence not at home, he would throw a fit, destroy everything, and make life scary. I remember sitting on my parents' bed as my father smashed up their bedroom and my mom held me. We were getting ready to go somewhere. I don't remember if we actually went or not. The last fit he had like that was before Christmas when I was in the first grade. Sam came home drunk, but my mom, brother, & I were out Christmas shopping with my grandmother. I got my ears pierced, so I could not wait to show Daddy my new ears! We came home to find the home detroyed, glasses broken, the kitchen table missing legs, holes in the walls & bathroom door. My mom told us to pack some clothes. We stayed with my grandparents for several days. Sam made up with my mother before Christmas. I later learned he attempted to set
the apartment on fire that time.

Also, around the same age was my first memory of my dad's verbal abuse. We were having supper, something with buttered rice. My mom always prepared my plate with a little sugar on my buttered rice, and this night was one of the first times I made my own plate. Kids love sugar! I put a spoonful of sugar on my rice, and was getting a second spoonful when my dad says to me, "You're putting too much damn sugar on there! You're gonna be so fat we'll have to put a sign in the yard just to marry you off to a n*gger or w*tback!" (His words, not mine.) Thus began a long battle between us.

For years, he waged war on our family. Sam's own family as a child was an awful situation: impoverished, abusive, and violent. Sam's father, from all accounts, was mean, a drunk, and prone to violence, and verbal and physical abuse. I already told the story of my grandmother aiming a rifle at my grandfather, to kill him if he hit Sam one more time in The Ultimate Survivor. Understandably so, my father had no idea on how to parent or much on how to love.

We had good times, too. We spent summer weekends on the warm East Texas lakes, although he was drunk. Before I got married, my mom attempted a business for packaging, mail, general office services, and natural nail maicures and pedicures. My dad was her first "client", getting a pedicure with bright blue polish on his toenails. He had a silly side. So, my rehearsal pictures feature Sam in shorts, flip-flops, and bright blue toes! The pastor told this story at Dad's funeral, which brought some much needed levity to the somber occasion. Also, standing outside the chapel on an East Texas plantation where I married the love of my life, my dad & I stood alone waiting to walk down the aisle, tears streaming fom his eyes. He took out his handkerchief, wiped away the tears, saying "It's so hot!"; I stil say I am hot when I get weepy. Admittedly, I am somewhat hot as I write this.

I have been to therapy many times to deal with my issues about Sam. On his deathbed, literally, I told him everything was forgiven and in the past. I wish I had meant it. It took more therapy, a lot of conversations with my mom, and seeing my father's family, his sister & her offspring, and his brother and his offspring to see the abusive nature of these people, to understand why my father behaved the way he did. It is no excuse, but I understand as a human being and not an injured little girl. I also learned his demons caused his behavior; I never did anything wrong to deserve his wrath. Understanding I am not culpable for his violence and abuse helped me understand and accept the rape was not my fault, either.

Before his death, my father confessed to my husband his love for me. Sam told my husband he knew I would always be okay because I had a good husband to take care of me. I don't understand why Sam could never talk to me that way. I guess that will always be a mystery.

I do love Sam, my father, despite the pain and fear from chidhood. My brother and I would hide when we heard his truck roar into the driveway; it was better for us to retreat to the safety of our own bedrooms than face his drunken anger. I have found forgiveness in understanding, though it has been a long, scary, tearful journey. I am glad to have this level of acceptance for my broken childhood. I find dealing with my rape trauma easier because I learned the victim is never at fault, and if the victim works hard, we become survivors.