What About Father?

From:  We Were the Mulvaneys, ( 2007) by Joyce Carol Oates, HarperPerrennial. P,232
“strange on her bloodless lips: Dad.
Dad, Dad. Who is your Dad?
Is a father a dad, always? Is Dad a father?
Is Dad a dad, or just a father?”

What About Father?

And what about Dad?
A year on, there are still people who don’t know he’s gone.
Doesn’t choke me up – doesn’t make me cry. But why not?
Tears are a gift, but I have not cried,
not much anyway,
not enough?
The crying came on the day mum and I sat on the step and cried because he was just gone.
It was fresh grief, a shock,
and at the crematorium,
but not since?
No not at all.
I’ll tell you what I do feel.
I will tell you the story.
Do you want to know? Are you sure?

What about Father?
His death, what it means to me?
It’s a relief,
a joy,
a freedom,
but not sad, no not at all.
A good daughter would be disconsolate
but I can’t make myself,
why lie?
I wear the black,
to show how I should feel but don’t,
an outward symbol,
but truly I feel only lightness, release of pressure, silence.
Is that normal?

What about Father?
Such antipathy as a teenager, towards HIM.
I was constantly scared,
petrified of Him,
of awakening The Anger,
and feeling the retribution.
He was inexplicable
we couldn’t ask.
I was so terrified all the time.

What about Father?
Issues with Authority Male all stem and spread from him.
He is unavoidable, He is omnipotent, He sees and judges every thought, word and action.
It’s my boss,
my husband,
my Father in Law,
doctors,
teachers,
police, and soldiers.
Such fear.
It’s irrational.
It was an imperative, a dictat, ruling emotion.
Fear
must avoid awakening the pure red anger onto myself.

What about Father?
I became a liar.
I am an untruth addict,
a story teller,
lying is so easy, natural
so good to lie.
Truth is a luxury, a new game to learn,
But so much harder.
The lie is my protector.
It keeps me safe,
secluding the real me, away from the angry one,
whose main task is to make me cowed and obedient.
This is what I was,
what I still am capable of being, my default setting.
This quiet, good me is a lie too.
My worst secret
I too was pure green anger.
So, so angry.
My rage and anger of course were far too unacceptable to ever, ever show to anyone.
And if I did,
there would be more red anger
and punishment
rained down on me.
I hid in the nautilus of myself.
Curled in my imagination.
This was a place so far removed from Saturn
I inhabited the dark side of the moon, never visible.

What about Father?
The fear, now,
it surfaces,
unexpectedly.
An sudden sound.
A key in the door.
The noise sends me straight back to my child-self.
A shot of pure fear and adrenalin,
it says run, hide,
don’t be caught,
act, watch, conceal, and avoid.
Pure terror.
The key in the door and the entrance of Authority Male after a few beers.
He is even more frightening,
and yet expected,
and there is a comfort in people doing what I expect them to.
Alcohol equals a row at high volume, telling off, accusations, reprimands, rough shouting, unprovoked, undeserved, interrogation, threatening and intimidating.
Subservience demanded,
Placations offered,
duty required, respect expected.
I’m not clever enough,
kind enough,
loveable enough,
I’m not good.

What About Father?
This is the end of the story.
The lies have to stop.
He is gone,
And I will continue.
All men are not bastards (revelation!) – some of them are good.
Some of them love me for who I am.
Inside the nautilis of myself,  curled in my imagination, stories are for the love of creativity only.
No need to hide or act to protect.
He is part of my story,
but my agency has out stripped his power over me.
He made me who I am.
thank you.
Now,
I can be authentically me.

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