It’s been two years since my Dad passed. I might not remember the exact date as well if it weren't Force Day. (May the Force be with you!)
Last year, since I wasn’t able to go on a bike ride to due to the weather and the pilgrimage has had me reflecting a lot over my life, I wrote a personal essay of over 2,300 that I’m now too worn out to edit and may not publish it anyway, but I thought I’d share the pieces below.
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When my parents divorced, my Mom decided to move a block away so we could still be close to our Dad and she also wouldn't have to raise us alone. While they were divorced and living two separate houses a block away from each other, they were co-parenting before we had a term for it. My brother and I ping-ponged back and forth between them throughout the day, but we were with Dad during the day after school and with Mom during the night. Like most Moms do, she got the short end of the stick because she still had to feed us and hound us to do house labor. Because Dad was able to secure paying jobs that we were able to get a piece of the pie from - and Dad was mostly chill, fair, fun to be around, and the activities were much more enjoyable for boys - we opted to spend more time with Dad.
Mom also tried to get us some gigs where we could work with her, but they were usually much lower-paying cleaning or food-service gigs. We'd work our tails off for a few hours and make $10 with Mom and even when we made that, it'd usually get paid out four or five days later. Dad's gigs were closer to $10-15 per hour and we'd get paid cash that evening.
It was hard work, but I LOVED working with Dad. He lived being an Army sergeant so he was tough but fair. He set the standard, provided the tools, and mostly left me to my devices to determine how to do the work. Since most of the jobs were per job and not per hour, if I figured out faster ways to get them done, we all got to get paid and go home faster. If I faffed about, I had less free time and I was messing with Dad's time, too.
Even though we got paid more with Dad, the socially perceived value of the work was inverted. At the time in the South, yardwork for cash was what (some) white people called “nigger work” and we needed to play the part. Dad had spent his life playing that part and figured out his own ways to be subversive with it; he had been pulled out of his college journey to be a doctor to be drafted for Korea. Deep down, he knew he was smarter, more capable, and stronger than the people he needed to say "Yes'sa" to. Being in the Army helped with this, too, as his generation of soldiers had ample experience with incompetent gentry being in leadership positions above them. In both cases, he knew he was playing a role but also knew the role was not who he was.
The perception of the work and how we were treated always bothered my older brother more. He chafed and rebelled against it unless he absolutely had to work with Dad. He was worried about which of his friends - or, worse, potential girlfriends - might see him out cutting grass, trimming hedges, or raking leaves with his concrete-crusty father in labor-soiled clothes and Dad’s low-riding, barely-running Sanford-and-son junker truck. It definitely was not the way to be cool and get the girls.
I was much more like Dad about it. I knew I was smarter, more capable, and stronger than the role I was playing. Besides, I liked the work, the pay, and getting to do stuff with Dad. Some of the fondest, loving moments with Dad came from carrying drywall, digging trenches, crawling under houses, hanging from trees, splitting wood, and raking leaves.
What people said and thought about it was a testament to their character, not our humanity. I had found a way to get paid to do something that was aligned with what I cared about that also happened to be the best opportunity available to a young teenage boy.
Between doing without, working for $5 an hour in tight spaces washing dirty and cleaning floors, or hitting a job with Dad, Dad always won. I’d rather sweat in the sun with someone I loved being with so much that Dad beat out a lot of other things I also enjoyed, including video games. (Which says a lot for a boy who grew up in the eighties.)
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I became what time and circumstances prevented my Dad from becoming.
He was often the only family member I celebrated career milestones with because he was the only one who would let it be about me without making it their thing, getting petty, or listening to me just long enough to feel like they could switch it to whatever they wanted to talk about. It was always fun to hear his surprised elation and curiosity that often sounded like "damn, boy, how'd you end up there?"
Our worlds became so different that I couldn't explain the ins and outs, but we both knew that's not what he was asking for. I hoped it affirmed to him that all the ass-kissing, kowtowing, and "Yes'sa"'s that he had to give on my behalf opened up the world he was denied.
That's why part of the dedication in Start Finishing (that he got to see before he passed) was:
[For] Dad, who in another place time would’ve stunned the world with what he finished
While I miss being able to hug Dad and get out on job sites with him, I don't feel his absence. So much of him is still with me because of how much of him is who I am.
