Yup, it's almost Mother's Day, but I have that one nailed--I'll surprise my 83-year-old mom with a visit from her recently-discovered 20-year-old granddaughter, whom she adores, who will arrive with her adorable, rocksolid boyfriend to help me do the kinds of chores Mom can't do herself: moving big potted plants around, rearranging things on high shelves. Mom will be ecstatic. I'm here in the desert to ensure her remaining years are full of such moments. So that one's a lock. I come from a long line of smart, strong women who love fiercely.
So what's on my mind is Father's Day, June 20. What follows is for all the men who've "fathered" this child to whom they had no DNA connection. Who volunteered to set an example. And to love. Lucky me--I've had three of them!
Until I was 4, I had a biodaddy who adored me, taught me, set a standard for what men should be--smart, handsome, exciting, fearless, adoring--and uncritically accepting,admiring of me. Then he dissolved into paranoid psychosis. I'll spare you the details. Nothing sexual (no "recovered memories" here!), but beatings, verbal and psychological abuse, neglect--you name it, that's what the old man turned into.
Eventually, despite his best efforts, I realized I deserved to live after all. I was 25, and I needed to know men I could honor, respect, and trust, who would teach me how men of honor and intellect behave--with no sexual overtones--and react to me the way that sort of man would do. I would know by the look in his eyes.
Initially, I thought I saw that look in the eyes of the man I worked for, felt it in the way he touched me (not unsexual, of course, but still). But we were offbase, so I couldn't let myself believe it.
Then I was back in school, so I had professors--older men of intellect, conscience and vision, who knew the value of what they saw in me. The first one declared himself when I announced I was going to UC Berkeley for a PhD. He said, "You won't like it. They do Theory there. A load of crap, Pinheads on Parade--not your thing at all. You don't know how good you are, and Berkeley's not going to help you find out." While he said this, he looked like he expected me to walk across the pond we were standing next to.
I went anyway, of course. It was--and is--the best program in my field, in the world. Not for sissies; bare knuckles; you make it through that, you can go hand to hand (or mind to mind) with anyone in the world. Ugly, varsity shit I wasn't ready for. I had no idea; I drank a lot, and cried. But eventually I found another surrogate daddy, a world-class Shakespeare authority and the first person at UCB to tell me I was smart, whose wife became one of my best friends. Once he waved me silent when I was apologizing for something or other: "No, no, no. You never have to apologize to me! You are on my very short list of People Who Can Do No Wrong. Just tell me about it; don't apologize." Looking at me like he expected me to walk across San Francisco Bay.
The third of my surrogate daddies was a friend of my stepfather's. A WWII test pilot (combination to his deck locker: 1945), 85 if he was a day, most of his working parts (knees, elbows, shoulders) replaced due to wear and tear. Maybe he made it through the 4th grade, but nobody's sure. Half Native American. Self-made man, million$ from concrete or gravel or something, and a Mercedes dealership. He and I took one look at each other, and we were On, without discussion. "Here," he'd say, tossing me the keys to his Chriscraft, the one with the roaring 12-cylinder Cadillac engine, "you drive." And we'd tear around the lake in the moonlight, flinging up a whale-drowning wake, U2 blasting from the sound system. He'd laugh like a crazy man, look at me like he expected me to walk across the lake. One time, I heard my mom on the phone, saying to whoever was calling me: "No, I'm sorry, she'll have to call you back. She's out kicking tires with Elbert." When he had his last stroke, I visited him in the hospital, and we arm-wrestled on the side that still worked. He won, fair and square. Afterward, in the car with my mom, I burst into tears: "Oh, Mom, I know I'll never see him again, and I can't stand it." "You have to," she replied. He died very shortly thereafter, and I handled it.
So to these men who fathered me without knowing it, I say Happy Father's Day, I love you the way only a daughter can love you. You taught me what a man is. You taught me what to look for in the eyes of a husband--which, until recently, I never have seen. Thank you for teaching me how to recognize that look, and what it's worth. Thanks for spoiling me, you three, the way daddies spoil their girls. Thank you for showing me some men deserve my trust. I will love you forever--Leo, Stephen, Elbert--my daddies.
Comments