Dad always said he loved when I would write. He said I could somehow always make him feel, and anybody who knows my dad knows that wasn’t always easy. But as far as a eulogy, this is the best I could do after Amy insisted I remove all the inappropriate jokes.
Understanding how Dad thought or felt was often reserved for those quiet 1:1 moments, of which I had many. He wasn’t an over-sharer. In fact one of the blessings my wife afforded me was the practice of reviewing safe and possible conversation topics prior to visits, not that I was very good at compiling, but it always helped.
This last year nurses would call very often to ask me about what kind of man Dad was. I started to just routinely joke that he was a pretty entitled white guy, just because I know that was the part they were struggling with. My dad would get frustrated and angry if he wasn’t able to contact me, and on more than one occasion, he’d deal with this problem by throwing his phone. Bad news is he wound up moving around a lot which left more in house phone lines to navigate. Good news was, there always seemed to be new phones to throw. We joke now when we’re dealing with 1st world problems that we’re just gonna go throw our phones just cause we like irony. But that was only when he was helpless, or frustrated, in pain, angry or depressed, and that was the best that he could do sometimes at low energy. But nobody should ever feel low energy.
I guess that was part of what we needed to face.
I had a complex relationship with him. I both loved him and at times, resented him, both fairly and very unfairly. I admired and I judged him. I was struck by his generosity and furious at his selfishness, sometimes moment to moment. I know him as a sap and a hard ass. In some ways he was immensely intelligent and stoically stupid. He was 8 steps ahead of anybody in a game of chess, but he rarely knew who he was playing. I’ve built so much of who I am out of him - both his warning and example. I am the teacher I am today as a result.
Growing up many times my dad was criticized for giving me too much freedom as a kid. There were times those critiques were mine! My dad saw how life makes us strong. He believed we learn from experience. And he didn’t have an ounce of patience. And he knew full well how much was out of his control.
One time while teaching me to jump my car I found myself standing on its bumper in a corner hunched under a bunch of hanging bikes, holding cables in each hand to connect them to the battery when my dad warns me to “not touch metal” or the bled battery acid could “explode.” I stood there stupid paralyzed trying not to let my knees buckle when it dawned on him what he’d done to me and we both just laughed and laughed...
But that’s the kind of life he knew and that’s the kind of life he gave me. And in a lot of ways, that’s the kind of person I am. I’ve learned that you don’t teach subjects. You teach thought. You teach language. You teach access. Teaching is all about facing your mortality because it’s not about answers or even questions. It’s about facing your fears. It’s about the unknown. It’s about progress.
We tell ourselves stories about why or what. We narrate our lives like we’re heroes or victims but real life, love, art, magic, and intimacy stems from knowing full well all sides. I watched him succumb to the silliest of obstacles, and brace through some of the worst hardships. I knew both his staunch acceptance and his clumsy desperate embrace. I didn’t learn those things as much from my mother. I learned them from 4 decades with him.
He’s woven into my existence, my thoughts. And I always know he tried his best. It couldn’t have been easy. And he never questioned or guilted me about my boundaries, even while we all struggled through this paradigm shift of social etiquettes. He accepted it like he accepted everything, quietly, bravely, and mostly alone - with the occasional broken phone to clean up. He forgave me my lessons, and I forgive him his. I eventually learned how to hold my own in his presence, but was more than flattered this last year when we’d talk and he’d go from rage to calm in one simple (successful) phone call and then thank me for just being there. And I hope that it matters I was there for that last moment; the one we will all face one day. The one we worry about our entire lives.
He struggled in life, but not in death. We all did. We all do. But through him, I know how. And that’s all we ever really have to offer each other.
Thanks Dad. I love you, and I know it’s okay.
Ali
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