About a month ago I started a series of blog pieces entitled “A Few Things My Dad Got Right.” Shortly after the third and final installment went up, I got a long letter from my father that made it clear he felt blind-sided and hurt by the content of the posts. I immediately took the posts down so he and I could discuss them and figure out why something I had intended as a positive homage to the lessons he had imparted had struck him as an unfair, public and one-sided upbraiding of him as a human being.
Judging by our back and forth, it seems to me that my Dad felt like the pieces I wrote
were infused with resentment and more than a little selective memory. This couldn’t be more contrary to what I had intended but it’s very much a reminder for me that writing autobiographical material (especially material that endeavors to be very honest) means writing about other, real, people who may not like their personal, private lives dissected for mass consumption (or, at least, would like some say over how said dissection is done). This feeling is, no doubt, magnified by the fact that I am the lone voice in this particular pulpit and so it is my recollections (subjective and flawed as they no doubt are) that stand, unchallenged, as historical fact. That fact alone is probably unfair to anyone whose name appears on this blog (my wife most of all).
After a good deal of back and forth with my father, I’ve reposted the pieces in question (he was actually hoping I would do so, not because he’d suddenly agreed with their content but because he didn’t want to be seen as a censor). With all this as preamble, I’ll be interested to see how they read to people who don’t know either of us very well (or know both of us, who knows).
I’ve read over the pieces half-a-dozen times since receiving my Dad’s original note. I’ve tried to be as objective as possible and, at this point, I’m satisfied I gave all of you an accurate portrayal of my father as he was back in the day. I very much hope that the message people took away in regard to his legacy as a father was, on balance, a positive one. It’s a mixed review, no doubt, but the point of the pieces remains the same: only as a father myself am I able to see the important lessons I learned, even though I didn’t know I was learning them at the time.
That’s not how my Dad has seen it and the conflict we’ve had poses something of an
ethical dilemma for me. On the one hand, I can’t apologize for writing what I think is an honest and fair assessment of who he was when I was little. I tried to paint a somewhat complex picture of a guy with his share of failings and his share of successes – whose parenting choices I both reject and replicate on a regular basis. On the other hand, I want him to understand that I value the relationship we’ve developed in my adult years and that these days I think of him as a loving, warm and generous friend and grandfather. (indeed, if my kids could read the pieces I wrote, they would have a very hard time believing I was describing their Popop).
Striking the balance of those two ideas has been harder than I would have imagined. It remains, like most father/son relationships, a work in progress.