I feel stupid, as I look back now. Many, many years ago I visited England. As a first generation Australian it's a familiar sentiment to feel an association with your heritage. Acutely aware that there is connection to your current country and elsewhere. Part of the diaspora, forging new familial paths. In my late 20s my (now ex) partner and I visited the UK twice. I met extended family members, and wanted to explore places I'd read about in books or seen on the enormous amount of English TV I had watched growning up. As a child I had romanticised the idea of where my parents came from. Mum, from Yorkshire, of course I imagined the Yorkshire Dales akin to James Herriot's All Creatures Great and Small. Rolling green hills, dry stone walls and flat caps. In reality she came from Leeds, a large city. Similarly, Dad was from Nottingham...the land of Robin Hood. Oak tree forests and legends of robbing the rich to give to the poor. He was actually from a market town called Retford.
When traveling I wanted to understand my own family history. Believe it or not, I went to a Railway Museum. Dad had worked on steam trains after leaving school. We walked into a huge warehouse filled with steam engines and carriages. I took off, searching for names I had heard Dad mention - the Mallard and Flying Scotsman. In doing so, I lost sight of my ex. In the days before mobile phones, it tooks ages before we managed to find each other. He was raging at me for wandering off. I look back now, embarrassed by the speed and single mindedness of my search for two locomotives. I realise now, perhaps it was some strange attempt to connect with and find approval from a father who was emotionally distant.
I visited Mum late last year. As she ages I try to ask questions and talk about her own past as well as my own. It's not always a happy trip down memory lane. We discussed her childhood. I asked if her Dad ever tried to stop the violence inflicted on her by her Mother. She explained that her Mum mostly did things when her Dad was at work. She did also relay a story of her Dad bringing a cup of tea to his wife in bed. Enraged by it being the wrong temperature, the cup was smashed and a broken shard purposely sliced down his pajama clad chest. Hearing the commotion, Mum raced to the bottom of the stairs. Looking up she saw her Dad standing at the top, pajama top cut open and a large gash down his torso. He came downstairs, racing to the kitchen, my Mum following horrified at seeing him hurt. She said he needed to go to hospital or see a doctor as he needed stitches. He quietly asked her for help as he wrapped bandages around his chest to bring the wound together. This was a ritual Mum would help him with each day for months while the cut healed. Looking at him, my Mum asked why he didn't just leave? He was on the receiving end of my Grandmother's abuse as much as my Mum was. 'Because marriage is a promise...'till death do us part'. I asked Mum how she ended up being the kind hearted person she was, given the environment she grew up in. 'Because I loved my Dad'. Enduring the years of abuse she had the love of one parent to cling to.
We moved on to talking about my Dad. Mum asked if I remembered our family sunday night ritual. I remember bath time, roast dinners and watching Disney. Apparently there was also a show which demonstrated origami. My brothers and I would try to follow along, mesmerised by the magic of a piece of paper turned into something three dimentional. Dad said it was time for bed, but I wanted to keep folding. Furious, he marched across the living room, picking me up by the wrist. He turned to Mum, me dangling in the air crying, directing 'Put her to bed...NOW!'. Mum was so worried permanent damage would be done to my wrist. I thankfully don't remember any of it.
I've written before about my Dad's anger and the new lens of coercise control that I see his behaviour through. Mum mentioned that when she was widowed (her first husband dying young) and was looking after my two brothers. she had a car, a house she was paying off and odd jobs to supplement her widow's pension. After meeting my Dad she lost those things. He came into the relationship with nothing but controlled the finances after they were married. He later threatened if she tried to leave she would get nothing. I knew of the threats, but hadn't understood that Mum had assets before meeting Dad. Once married, she somehow lost these as my Dad became the head of the household.
I was once again seeing my Dad in a new light. Each conversation about the past makes me more angry. How could he be an even more awful person than I remember? What do I do with information that is hard to process? After his death in 2012, I learned to let go of a lot of things. I could no longer yearn for his approval as he was gone. But the new lens I see him through a decade after his death is bringing him into a new focus.
I have an embarrassing confession to make. I'm currently binging a show on Netflix that I watched in my 20s - Dawson's Creek. I actually own the DVDs and just for the record, I'm totally #teamPacey #teamJen. It's been interesting to see the emotionally distant / verbally belittling father trope played out for two of the characters. I saw the raw pain of teenagers seeking validation from a parent who was unable to do anything but criticise or disapprove. There was a speech delivered by the character Jack McPhee (the newly outed gay character in the show) to his sister Andie about their father. Paraphrasing, he says, we're too busy focussed on wanting connection with our father we've never stopped to ask ourselves if we respect him. Ladies and gentlemen - mic drop. A small explosion went off in my head.
I have a friend who is a fan of the saying 'other people's opinions of me are none of my business'. And to a degree that is true. But I prefer a different hot take on this. The only opinions of me that matter, are those of people I like and respect. I learned this through my workplace. But it never occured to me to apply this philosophy closer to home. I have been struggling for a few months to process this new knowledge about my Dad. I cried in the work car park talking to a friend as we shared dysfunctional family stories. Where do I put the new knowledge of his awfulness? But thanks to the Tao of Dawson's Creek, maybe the sting of embarrassment I feel at chasing steam engines in an attempt for connection can be let go. It seems a right of passage to seek approval from others. But maybe we should focus on the people we love and respect instead of yearning for a sign from those we don't.
Me and Mum
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