Gilda Dent
11-14-2007, 05:06 AM
My father and my brother. Dad is 61 today and Jiro, my brother, 30. Late in 1977, my mother's pregnancy with my brother was progressing a bit more rapidly than was healthy, and Jiro was growing too large due to complications related to my mother having pregnancy diabetes. At eight months he was already unusually large and the doctors needed to induce a month early both for her safety and for his. A month premature he weighed nine pounds.
The OBGYN told my mom she could pick the day they would induce labor, with no guarantee that labor would proceed quickly enough for the child to be born that day, and she and my father chose his birthday to be the same as my father's.
This makes today a someone complex day for me emotionally. My father and I have never gotten along well. There was a period of nine years during which we never spoke a word, and even today our communication is minimal. When he calls to talk to my mom, and we see the caller ID pop up with his name, I make sure I'm the one to answer the phone. He always wants to talk to mom, never to me, but if I answer the phone, it forces him to at least acknowledge that I still exist to get access to her.
So our level of communication currently consists of my asking if he wants to talk to mom, and his saying he does.
Perhaps it's cruel or petty. I don't expect a relationship any longer. I'd long since given up on the idea that anything I would ever do would be, could be good enough to earn his love.
But at the very least, he can still acknowledge that I exist, and if this is the only way I have of getting that from him, it's what I'm going to do. I have no idea how he feels when he hears me saying, "Hi, Dad. Do you want to talk to mom?"
He gets updates on his granddaughter from her. They've been divorced for a couple of decades now, and as he gets older I think he's realizing that his abrasive personality has driven away the people who might have been there for him at this time in his life, and he's starting to try to cling to those few he hasn't driven out of it.
I feel sad for him, and on occasion still a bit of anger. I also, if I'm going to be honest, have to acknowledge that much of what makes me the person I am today comes from him. Half my genes. My love of learning, of education, puzzles of all sorts, and poetry, these come from him. That I'm an athlete grew out of my attempts to find a way to earn his approval as a teen, and though I've outgrown that particular motivation, I retain my love of running and playing basketball.
He'll never be the father I want him to be, and I'll never be the child he wants me to be, but to say that I never got anything positive from him would be unfair to us both.
And of course, despite everything, I still love him. I no longer expect anything in return from him, but I do still love him.
I'll call him this afternoon, nobody will answer, and I'll leave a message wishing him a happy birthday and telling him, "I love you." This message will be ignored.
To say that Jiro was the favored child in our family would be an understatement. He was, and is, smart, socially adept, and genial. He likes being around other people, is highly skilled at the art of enjoying people for exactly who they are rather than looking for a mirror for his own personality.
It is perhaps this quality that led him to accept me easily when I came out to him. He'd known me better than anyone, and had been my biggest supporter all our teen years. I think he was most hurt when I disappeared from the family during college, finding excuses not to come home during holidays, enrolling in every summer session. But he understood on some level and accepted that this was something I needed to do.
When I came out to him, he was surprised only that I wasn't gay, and never showed any disapproval. He's like this with most people--so long as you treat others with dignity, with respect, superficial things like color or sexuality are more or less irrelevant. A person doesn't have to fit into some narrowly defined box to be acceptable in his world.
He's a middle school principal at a small school in the Midwest, and according to what limited information I have, quite good at this. From what I've seen of his interactions with his children and wife, he seems a good father and husband.
When Emily and I came for Thanksgiving at his house a few years back, he introduced us to his children as Aunt Gilda and Aunt Emily, as if that were all the explanation anyone would or should need.
As he begins his long, slow, inevitable descent into the wasteland that is middle age, I have little doubt that he's going to remain a positive influence on the people around him. I wish I could be closer, but circumstances dictate otherwise, so we have to settle for phone calls most of the year.
The last time I saw him was this past summer. Molly, my youngest half-sister, was going for a month of visitation with her father, so we went a week early and spent a bit of time with him and his family.
They'll be arriving here next Tuesday evening. They're spending this Thanksgiving with us. Mom and the two littlest ones are already here, so their coming here makes things most convenient.
Dad will ignore my birthday call. Two years ago, when I was busy with other things and had delayed the phone call, my brother called me, saying, "I just called so you could wish me a happy birthday. Get on with it, I don't have all day for this you know. I have nine more people to call." I could hear the smile in his voice even as he adopted a tone of mock exasperation.
Happy birthday to the two most important men in my life.
The OBGYN told my mom she could pick the day they would induce labor, with no guarantee that labor would proceed quickly enough for the child to be born that day, and she and my father chose his birthday to be the same as my father's.
This makes today a someone complex day for me emotionally. My father and I have never gotten along well. There was a period of nine years during which we never spoke a word, and even today our communication is minimal. When he calls to talk to my mom, and we see the caller ID pop up with his name, I make sure I'm the one to answer the phone. He always wants to talk to mom, never to me, but if I answer the phone, it forces him to at least acknowledge that I still exist to get access to her.
So our level of communication currently consists of my asking if he wants to talk to mom, and his saying he does.
Perhaps it's cruel or petty. I don't expect a relationship any longer. I'd long since given up on the idea that anything I would ever do would be, could be good enough to earn his love.
But at the very least, he can still acknowledge that I exist, and if this is the only way I have of getting that from him, it's what I'm going to do. I have no idea how he feels when he hears me saying, "Hi, Dad. Do you want to talk to mom?"
He gets updates on his granddaughter from her. They've been divorced for a couple of decades now, and as he gets older I think he's realizing that his abrasive personality has driven away the people who might have been there for him at this time in his life, and he's starting to try to cling to those few he hasn't driven out of it.
I feel sad for him, and on occasion still a bit of anger. I also, if I'm going to be honest, have to acknowledge that much of what makes me the person I am today comes from him. Half my genes. My love of learning, of education, puzzles of all sorts, and poetry, these come from him. That I'm an athlete grew out of my attempts to find a way to earn his approval as a teen, and though I've outgrown that particular motivation, I retain my love of running and playing basketball.
He'll never be the father I want him to be, and I'll never be the child he wants me to be, but to say that I never got anything positive from him would be unfair to us both.
And of course, despite everything, I still love him. I no longer expect anything in return from him, but I do still love him.
I'll call him this afternoon, nobody will answer, and I'll leave a message wishing him a happy birthday and telling him, "I love you." This message will be ignored.
To say that Jiro was the favored child in our family would be an understatement. He was, and is, smart, socially adept, and genial. He likes being around other people, is highly skilled at the art of enjoying people for exactly who they are rather than looking for a mirror for his own personality.
It is perhaps this quality that led him to accept me easily when I came out to him. He'd known me better than anyone, and had been my biggest supporter all our teen years. I think he was most hurt when I disappeared from the family during college, finding excuses not to come home during holidays, enrolling in every summer session. But he understood on some level and accepted that this was something I needed to do.
When I came out to him, he was surprised only that I wasn't gay, and never showed any disapproval. He's like this with most people--so long as you treat others with dignity, with respect, superficial things like color or sexuality are more or less irrelevant. A person doesn't have to fit into some narrowly defined box to be acceptable in his world.
He's a middle school principal at a small school in the Midwest, and according to what limited information I have, quite good at this. From what I've seen of his interactions with his children and wife, he seems a good father and husband.
When Emily and I came for Thanksgiving at his house a few years back, he introduced us to his children as Aunt Gilda and Aunt Emily, as if that were all the explanation anyone would or should need.
As he begins his long, slow, inevitable descent into the wasteland that is middle age, I have little doubt that he's going to remain a positive influence on the people around him. I wish I could be closer, but circumstances dictate otherwise, so we have to settle for phone calls most of the year.
The last time I saw him was this past summer. Molly, my youngest half-sister, was going for a month of visitation with her father, so we went a week early and spent a bit of time with him and his family.
They'll be arriving here next Tuesday evening. They're spending this Thanksgiving with us. Mom and the two littlest ones are already here, so their coming here makes things most convenient.
Dad will ignore my birthday call. Two years ago, when I was busy with other things and had delayed the phone call, my brother called me, saying, "I just called so you could wish me a happy birthday. Get on with it, I don't have all day for this you know. I have nine more people to call." I could hear the smile in his voice even as he adopted a tone of mock exasperation.
Happy birthday to the two most important men in my life.