The Silence of Our Fathers

“Shut up! Oh my GOD! Stop crying before I put you through the wall!”

His eyes, sweaty and wide, pinned the son to the spot on the floor. A clenched fist. Spittle flying from the father’s mouth with each verbal arrow shot. The son was sitting on his bed when the father had thrown the door open and fired his first salvo at the ten-year-old boy. The son then found himself on the cold tile floor, trying to squeeze into a corner and disappear. Head bowed as if it would protect him from words, he gazed at a spot on the well-worn floor. The father’s words pushed him from the dinner table, to the bedroom, to the floor, and now to the corner. 

“You are so damn sensitive!” The father continued the rant, “What the hell is wrong with you? All I SAID was, the girl is ugly and you’re a fool for being such a whiny ass about her making fun of you. It’s what they DO! Get. Over. It!  And the next time you want to share something about your day, don’t! Just eat your dinner and be quiet! Kids should be seen and not heard! And STOP whimpering!”

The big man’s breath rushed in and out of his lungs in hard measured strokes as he glared at his son, fists still clenched, rocking on his heels as if the motion would release angry energy. 

“Sorry, Dad.” The words, barely a whisper, escaped from the son’s lips. 

“What? What did you say? Oh for God’s sake, speak the hell up!” 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I made you so mad. I won’t do it again.”

Sitting erect now with his back against the corner, the son bit his lip hard, fought the painful lump that took up residence in his throat, and squeezed his eyes closed to swallow the shameful tears. “I’m sorry I’m so sensitive and told you I got my feelings hurt. Stupid Charlotte is just a dumb girl and I shouldn’ta let stuff bother me. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

“Ah, that’s ok, pal.” The rage had passed, calm slowly settled into the father’s heart. Calm, and a bit of shame. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry I get so mad son. It’s not you, it’s, well. You get all twisted up about stuff. Just, you know, let it go. You sit there and think and think about stuff. Who the hell cares if a girl makes fun of you? A lot of people in life will make fun of you. And a lot of people suffer a hell of a lot more than you. I just don’t understand why you get so upset. Just let it go and ignore it. OK, pal? Just do that. Don’t be so sensitive. No one cares but you. OK?”

Wiping his nose with the back of his forearm, the son replied in a voice the father wanted to hear, “Sure, Dad. You’re right. I won’t ever do that again. Thanks, Dad.”

“Good. I’m gonna finish my dinner. You can stay in here and cry or come back and eat. I don’t care what you do.” The father took a step halfway out of the room and stopped suddenly. The memory of a pretty, blonde hair girl with a ponytail smiled at him and stood in the doorway. Her smile turned to a sarcastic sneer as she threw the flowers he gave her on the ground.

“Why would I ever want to go out with YOU, you big fatso! You’re fat, and stupid and ugly!” She shouted at him, grinding the flowers to little bits with her heel.

Her words, cold, mean, and crafted to into a weapon, echoed through time and still haunted the father. The scar throbbed. He never let himself forget. The father knew the son’s tears, knew the pain and feeling of betrayal. He ached to hold the son and comfort him. The deep scars of the father, however, told a story of what was to come: there is no room for feelings or weakness.

“Son,” the father’s voice was quiet as the memory faded, chased away by the feeling of compassion for the hurt boy, “I uh, well. Hm.”

“Yes Dad?” The small voice lifted from the corner of the room.

"Son, I, um.” He swallowed hard and sighed. “Nothing. Don’t let stuff bug you OK? That’s all.”

“OK, Dad,” the son whispered to the floor. “It won’t happen again, Dad. I love you, Dad.”

And it never happened again. Although the son never expressed his feelings out loud, he loved his father until the day the father died. That gray, autumn day, you could find the son sitting alone in a corner of his backyard, partially hidden under some trees, quietly sobbing until the wee hours of the morning. 

Throughout his life, the son always offered his back and brains to anyone that needed help. He’d fix your car, help you work on your house, offer advice on financial issues – whatever you need, he’d be there. Up before the sun and in bed by 10, discipline and order were traits he exemplified in all he did. The son was a dichotomy in some ways, much like the conflict that simmered deep within him. He was quiet, yet often the life of the party. He liked to be in charge but didn’t want to cause waves. He would sing the songs you want to hear, but quietly hummed his favorite tunes when he was alone. He longed to blurt his song out loud for the world to hear, but didn’t want to draw attention to himself.  Besides, no one really wants to hear his song anyway. 

The son got married and loved his wife with a passion and heart seldom found in men. Whatever she wanted was hers without question. For anniversaries and Christmases, he’d buy her flowers, diamonds, silver, gold, candy, and mushy cards. He’d spend hours looking for the card that had his words on it. The words which burned in his heart and mind, but seldom passed his lips. So many thoughts. So many words to share. Bah, she knew. He doesn’t have to share anything. She was happy and he just knew it. Listening to her sing now and then, he just knew she was happy. He thought of a song he used to love to sing, years ago. The melody, hm, how did it go? He hummed it just a year or so ago. No matter, it’s just a song. 

Then the son became a father.

Life was good. A solid job, beautiful wife, a house in the suburbs, two cars, and the respect of family and friends. A child was born, a boy, and the son became the father. He loved the son. When the father wasn’t working, he played with the son, helped him grow and taught him how to be a man. With greedy eyes and a fertile mind, the son listened intently and watched all his father did. As the years rolled by, the son asked the father many questions.

“Dad, why don’t we ever pray other than just the same dinner prayer every night?”

“You don’t pray out loud, and you never share what you think or feel about God. God knows, and that’s good enough.”

“Dad, this girl I like, well, we were going together and now she likes my best friend and makes fun of me. It hurts, I’m just so sad. What did you do when that happened?”

“I never sat around moping over it! Who was it? That ugly girl you used to dote on all the time? Who cares! Move on, quit thinking so much about it. There’s all kinds of girls out there and that’s what they do. Quit pining away over something that stupid.”

“Dad, I got fired today. They said I didn’t fit in and that’s why they fired me. I don’t get it. I’m smart, work hard, earn awards, and am well liked. It’s, I dunno, embarrassing. I don’t know what to do.”

“First of all, don’t think your brains are gonna save you. There’s always someone smarter, always someone better. Don’t talk about it and you won’t be embarrassed. The important thing is, what are you gonna do about it? Get off your butt, quit feeling sorry for yourself, and work twice as hard. Look at me- I work 12 hours a day and never complain, never say a word. I hate my job, but it pays the bills and puts food in your belly. That’s how life is. So suck it up, and get busy.”

The son loved his father, but as the years passed and the storms of life raged, the son grew angry at the father for his lack of care and compassion. Every son wants to hear his father say “I’m proud of you, you’re doing a great job. I respect you and love you very much.” The son, starving for affirmation and affection from the father, eventually exploded in rage. “What do I have to do? Oh my God is there anything I do right? Can’t you just say it to me- that you understand what I’m going through and you’re on my side, or something? Anything?”

“I don’t share what I feel. Men don’t do that. You know how I feel, I don’t have to say anything.” The father’s words were calm. Emotionless. Measured. He burned a hole in the carpet with his eyes as the son glared at him. 

The son raged, shouting at the father, “It has nothing to do with being a man! It has everything to do with being in a family, to not only act like you give a hoot but to say the words! You’ve done stuff for me, but I just never - ugh! I hate this! I gotta fight the whole world some days and all you say is I’m not good enough and that it’s my fault!”  He hated himself for being so angry with the father, but he was crushed that he was so cold. 

The father slowly shifted his gaze from the hole in the carpet to the son, peered deeply into his heart. In his rage, the son didn’t notice the tears that streamed down the father’s face. The father sighed deeply, cleared his throat, and spoke in a hushed voice, barely audible.

“You don’t understand. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s that I can’t. I can’t tell you how bad I feel for you. I can’t tell you how much it hurts me to see you suffer, as a boy, a teen, or now- a young man. I just can’t stand to see you suffer in any way. Watching you go through all the crap you have in your life, none of which was deserved, has hurt me more than you can ever imagine. I hurt, for you, because you hurt. I just can’t say the words though. I’m sorry. That’s just how it is.”

The father lifted himself from his easy chair, walked quickly from the room, and went to his puttering place in the basement. The son could hear his father quietly humming a tune with no specific melody. Or perhaps it was sobbing. 

“I love you, Dad.” The son whispered to an empty chair. “I’m sorry I upset you so. It won’t happen again.” The son never again shared his problems with his dad. He never again spoke of his dreams, fears, desires, or asked advice. The father grew old and frail and the son watched over him, making sure he was taken care of and comfortable. The son loved the privilege of taking care of the father. Despite the father never being able to express his feelings to the son, the son learned in time to recognize the love the father had for the son. 

The father suffered a severe stroke and lost the ability to talk or swallow. In hospice, the father flourished one night and with a clear mind spoke to the gathered family. Laughing, telling stories, and joking, almost as if nothing had happened. The son didn’t join in the sharing that night. He was too overcome with emotion to speak, and emotion had no place here. The son had to be strong. At the end of the night, the son was the last to leave the room. He grabbed the father’s hand, and reassured the father, “I’ll take care of things, Dad. You rest.” 

The father smiled and squeezed the son’s hand. “I know you will. You always do.”

The father never awoke after that night. The son came to visit early in the morning each day, went to work, and always returned in the evening. Mornings were just the father and son though. For the last two mornings, the son couldn’t speak the words he wanted to the father. He’d talk of the weather or make awkward small talk with the unconscious man. The son eventually ran out of small talk though. He held his father’s hand, remembering doing so as a child. Warm. Big. Strong. Safe. Memories pushed him to edge of his emotion. The son finally spoke, one more time, to the father. 

“Oh, Dad, I’m gonna miss you. Thank you for all you’ve done for me, for the family. You worked hard all your life and we are all grateful. I’m sorry for the times I’ve hurt you and I forgive you for the times you hurt me. Life is hard. We don’t-.” The son took a long, deep, steadying sigh. “We don’t share how we feel and stuff gets messed up, I guess. I’m sorry it took me till now to even talk to you. I’m sorry I didn’t the other night when you were lucid. I just couldn’t bring myself to say the words. Now, you can’t talk back to me. And never will. I’m sorry.” The son stopped to wipe the tears from his face. He looked at the father, unconscious for days, and he had tears trailing from both eyes. 

“Dad, you can hear me!” he sobbed. There was an ever so faint tug on the son’s hand, still grasping the father’s. The son spoke to the father for the next ninety minutes. It would be the last time the son spoke to his father. The father died that night. 

Three months after the son buried his father, he found a book his father gave him years ago. It was a book written by Tim Russert, “Wisdom of Our Fathers.” At the time, the son had been going through a very difficult time in life, and the father said the book reminded him of the relationship between a father and son. The son never read the book because he was angry with his father. That was years ago though, and now the father was gone. The son wept, and as he set the book aside, a letter fell out. It was written by the father to the son, many years ago. 

“Personal and Confidential” was written in ink on the yellowed envelope. “That figures,” thought the son, “no way would he ever say anything to me or anyone else about me.” The opening lines told the son the father was sorry he could never say the words the son longed to hear. He told the son how proud he was of him, of the man he became, and how the son- now a father himself- sacrificed for his family in a way they would never know. The father shared that the son, his son, was the best father he’d ever seen. Far better than he was to his son.

“I admire you more than any man I’ve ever known,” the father had written.

The son reverently folded the letter, and slipped it into its envelope, and placed it back in the book. Hidden in plain sight on his desk, the son finally had the words from the father. Personal and confidential, for the world to see but not to know.

Photos of family and his life adorned the son’s desk. A favorite was of his own son, prominently placed, directly in front of the book the father gave him. Holding the picture, he gently wiped a long-remembered tear from the image of his son. The shutter snap of the camera had caught his son by surprise. The soft look of sorrow in the son’s eyes betrayed the young boy’s melancholy spirit that day. It was a familiar look.

The father whispered, “There’s so much I want to say to you. I know how it feels. I love you so much.”

He began to hum a song his father used to hum.

And then I took out a pen and paper and wrote a letter to my son.