My father’s shadow

An ordinary Tuesday afternoon. Dadās just come home from work. I hear his happy voice greeting Mom out in the kitchen. I hear Momās reply, too. Not the words. But the sound of her voice is unmistakable. Thereās a low tone of anger in it. Poison. Frosty bitterness. Someoneās been bad. I feel my body stiffen as I wonder who it is this time.

Dad sighs deeply. Not happy anymore. Now I hear his heavy footprints coming down the corridor. They stop at my sisterās door. I look past him from my room and see her sitting with her back to him, absorbed in reading a pony magazine while sheās eating. Then the haranguing begins. Her shoulders fly up to her ears in shock as the bile flows from his mouth about all the nasty things she has done to her mother today. She just sits there, quietly taking it like a cornered animal waiting for danger to pass. Which it does, eventually, as Dad stomps off down the corridor again.
I go in and quietly put my arm around her as she silently cries into her cereal. Not much to say. We both know how it is.
āI just told her off. No need to comfort her!ā Dadās voice booms from the doorway. I look back at him. āShe doesnāt deserve sitting here all alone feeling like that.ā He wavers in surprise at my words, then disappears.
I look spitefully at the empty doorway. And then and there I make a silent vow to never be like him.
Twenty five years later. Iām furiously swinging my axe, chopping down maple saplings in my garden. I donāt know what burns the most, the rage or the shame. Iāve grabbed my son by the arm. Again. Yelled at him. For something as banal as not wanting to pick up his toys from the floor.
Heās only six, for Christās sake!
Iāve done everything in my power to get him to do listen without getting angry. Negotiated. Explained. Argued. But in the end I felt powerless and humiliated. I snapped. And now I donāt know how to fix it with him without looking like an idiot.
Something needs to be done.
,,European Menās Gathering. Anger work with other men. Fighting with fake swords. Slapping each other in the face. Shoving each other away as we defend make-believe babies lying on the floor.
Iām surprised at how easy it comes to me. Iām such a nice guy. But I do have anger. And I love it. The fighting, the shoving, the screaming. I love letting it fly!
Occasionally the facilitatorās voice calls out. āDonāt step on the baby.ā āConcentrate!ā āYouāre getting hysterical.ā I rein myself in. A bit. Reluctantly. I donāt want control. I want my fury wild and unhinged.
Only later I see the point. Sitting alone at my kitchen table, I think of an argument between me and my wife. Thinking of something she said, I feel the rage suddenly flare in my arms, and almost before I know it, Iāve grabbed a plate and flung it at the wall. Then, as in a dream, everything slows down. I watch in astonishment as the plate sails through the air and connects with the wall. I hear the smashing sound as it splinters. Strangely detached I watch as the white splinters lazily scatter across the kitchen. Like snowflakes.
How idiotic, I hear myself thinking. How absolutely, ridiculously moronic. No more.
Iām not my father. But Iām also not not my father. His anger lives in me as a dark shadow begging to be recognized. Begging to be integrated into my life to be put to good use instead of being locked away, leaving me either powerless or turning me into a dark force of destruction when it breaks free. Knowing it, I can hold it and direct its energy to good effect. Know what I want and move to make it happen.
Iām not there yet. My fatherās anger is still working its way out of the shadow. But now my son listens to me. Most of the time, at least.
Better still, heās no longer afraid of me. Nor of his own anger. His fatherās shadow will be different than mine.
Responses