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My Father's Presence
By Art Wallace
poet/author and owner of Wise One Productions
July 2004
When I was in first grade, I used an ink pen to write on the back of one of the
school's chairs. My teacher told my father. I don't remember what I had written,
but I do vividly remember my father and me going back to the school, carrying the chair
home, and me scrubbing it in our bathtub to clean off my adolescent vandalism. My father
wanted to teach me a lesson about actions and consequences…and he did.
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In middle school, I got a D in a math class, which my parents were quite upset
about. Much to my embarrassment, my father marched me back to the school to see
what I had done, or had failed to do. He was disappointed to learn that I had
not turned in numerous homework assignments. Not only was I put on punishment
for Lord knows how long, but I also had to complete each missing assignment,
despite the fact that the teacher would not give me any credit for them or change
my grade. My father wanted to teach me a lesson about responsibility and the
importance of a good education…and he did.
I could go on about my father's attempts to curtail my childhood and teenage
transgressions, but he was much more than a mere disciplinarian.
He was a family man. Growing up, we were always visiting grandparents, aunts
and uncles, cousins. When we moved from our hometown of Chicago to Maryland,
we would almost annually make the 12-hour drive home around the holidays. He
would do most of the driving.
My father was a consummate provider. He was successful in his career, and worked
hard every day, coming home like clockwork in his dark colored three-piece suits,
kissing my mom. I don't remember ever needing something and not getting it. My
wants were another matter, and while I didn't get everything, I certainly was not lacking either.
My father was at nearly every sporting event that I played in while growing up.
Whether it was football, basketball, baseball, tennis, or track, my father was
rooting for me from the stands and often coaching on the sidelines, too. It shames
me now to recall that as a child, I was sometimes resentful of my father's presence.
See, I wanted to get away from parental scrutiny like most of the rest of the kids.
I wanted to be free to act out, too. But, my father was there. I didn't understand
then how fortunate I was.
My father was always there. In fact, that's probably the most indelible reflection
I have of growing up with my dad…his presence. He was there for me, always, as well
as for my two sisters and my mother, to whom he is still faithfully married. No matter
what, I knew I could count on my father. In terms of trustworthiness and dependability,
he remains the standard by which I judge all others. Few measure up.
This past summer, regrettably, my father was diagnosed with lung cancer. While I
had discovered and observed some of his other imperfections as I, myself, grew into
manhood, this event, more than any other, confirmed his mortality and humility. My
father, the ultimate rationalist and analytical thinker, never could come to grips
with his toxic habit. He tried, if seemingly halfheartedly. At this, though, my
father failed. Ever proud, he could never admit his addiction, and never asked for
any help from us. It was embarrassing, too, to watch him pretend as if he wasn't
smoking, smoke drifting out from under the table not withstanding. I would sometimes
pretend not to see, and to believe that he really needed to go grab something from the
corner store. Over the years, I saw that the man that I thought was the strongest
and the smartest also had his weaknesses. Now, with cancer looming, as I knew it
inevitably would, he would have to face up to the consequences of his own actions.
More than anything, I learned that my father was human.
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Yet in his weakness, I saw my own. While my father could not kick the habit, I could not
adequately confront him. Maybe the years spent under his strict tutelage prevented me from
turning the tables and assuming the role of the enforcer. I tried here and there. But, like
fatherhood, here and there is not enough. I should have been more demanding and stayed on his
back, like he did with me and the school chair in first-grade, or my middle school math homework.
Perhaps I could have saved him from this life-threatening transgression, as he saved me from
traversing so many wrong paths.
A credit to his tenaciousness, my father is now doing remarkably well. He endured the chemotherapy
treatments, and the operation wherein part of his lung was removed. He continues to recover, and
hasn't lost an ounce of his stubbornness.
Even now, as I'm in my early thirties, my father still attempts to teach and
explain things to me. I swallow my manly pride, and listen as best I can, and
learn. Each time we talk and interact, I discover more about myself, and see
more of him in me. I've been told that I have his laugh, and his phone voice,
though I think mine is much cooler. I know that I get my critical thinking
abilities from him, and my sense of honesty and integrity. I can't stand
cigarettes, and I guess I can ascribe that to him as well. So much of who I
have become I attribute directly to the one who continues to be the greatest
influence in my journey through manhood…my Dad.
While some may grasp at the concept of the importance of fathers via studies and
research, or perhaps from their own experience of neglect, I am blessed to have had
and to continue to have first-hand knowledge. My father taught me. And he still does.
Copyright © 2004, Art Wallace, Jr. All Rights Reserved.
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