untitled

When my dad was little the flap of tissue under his tongue was overgrown so that until it was discovered and corrected his speech was "messed up."

During that time apparently his dad constantly told him that he was a "retard" and would get in screaming fights with my grandmother about how she "gave him a retarded child."

I only learned this a couple years ago when I happened to be presenting at a conference near where my paternal aunt lives. I was able to spend an afternoon with her, and this was the first time I'd had an opportunity to spend time with her one on one as an adult. In this afternoon I really got to see the breadth of my aunt's strength, generosity, openness, and love. And I also learned a lot about my family.

When my aunt told me that story I vaguely remembered my dad once telling me about the thing with his tongue. And then I remembered that he did once ask me if the tissue under my tongue was ok and let me know that if it got messed up we would know what the problem was because he'd already been through it and it could easily be fixed.

The home where I spent the first seven years of my life was unsafe. When my parents were married my dad was volatile and unpredictable. But my dad always, always told me that I was smart and could do anything I wanted to. He started teaching me to read before I could even form full sentences. He bought me paints and sketchbooks when I wanted to be an artist. He wanted to, but couldn't, buy me a laptop when I wanted to be a writer. He wanted so much for me to believe in Santa Claus when I didn't. He made sure that I did not have an overgrown flap of tissue under my tongue.

My dad did not want me to be trapped in a life where I was unhappy. He has spent his life building houses and he does not love it. But he sometimes took my brother and me to construction sites to see the wooden outline of houses he was building, houses with open skies like the one my mom and stepdad would later buy. He has spent his life building magic houses that he will never live in.

I haven't maintained consistent contact with my dad in awhile, and I told my partner yesterday that it's hard because I've blocked so much of it that I can't imagine my dad hitting my mom or throwing plates against the dining room wall. The few times that I have seen my dad over the past ten years or so he seems increasingly numb, withdrawn, and isolated. My partner has only met my dad once; a few years ago we met him for lunch at a Wendy's. My partner puts it best when he says that he cannot imagine my dad doing those things either, because he has only ever known my dad as a shell of a person.

I wish he could have known him.