Not Always a Hero

I used to think my father was my hero. It took years, decades even for me to come to grips with the fact that he was my greatest sorrow. Let's begin when I came to grips with this.

It was cold on the stones outside of the prison but I stood there in my dress blues waiting to be acknowledged by the guards. I was so proud, so proud to finally have become a United States Marine I just had to share it with him. He would be so proud of me. The guard approached me with a smirk as if women could not possibly be soldiers. I stood tall, I spoke my truth and he took me in to plead my case with the Warden. He was much shorter than I had imagined and much more kind than I anticipated the keeper of a prison to be. He looked me over a few times as he shuffled through my orders for Iraq before reluctantly granting

me a visit with my father, on the premise I may never have this chance again. Even more surprisingly he let me enter wearing my uniform, which I hear was a no-go at the time.

The lunch area was silent, I just sat there staring at the vending machines that lined the walls. My heart was pumping so fast that I felt like I was meeting the president, but it was just my dad. The big teddy bear was nothing to fear, what was wrong with me. Then there he was, he looked like a ghost, hallow and shelled out from the untold abuses of prison life. I remember the deep sadness that overcame me seeing him like that. My father was always so full of laughter, and jokes but here he stood tears streamed down his face but even those seemed somehow empty. I ran to embrace him and we both broke down sobbing. I missed him so much but I could not rescue him from his life choices.

After we composed ourselves we talked for hours. It was during this time that we started talking about my childhood and I realized what he remembered was much different from what I did. The moment of reckoning was initiated by a joke he made inquiring about the story behind one of my scars. I was taken aback that he mentioned it because he knew where I got it from and no it was not in the service. Meeting his sarcastic joking style I said, "no dad, that was a gift from your ex, Doris, who stabbed me because I snuck food from the cupboard in the middle of the night to feed my starving brother and sister in the attic." He was incredulous at the very thought that I could be telling the truth. "Come on, what really happened," he said.

It was at this moment that I began to remember the old familiar way he coped with reality - alcohol, and humor. When faced with impending doom, like an abusive lover, he would take the path of least resistance and shake off our suffering as an over-exaggeration. In fact, he began to talk down to us as if we were stupid children, wrong, and no matter what we were liars because this was easier to digest. See, my father loved us with a blazing love, but his need to be loved by a woman was much more piercing. To acknowledge foul play would mean loneliness and the struggles of a single parent. He could not.. and frankly still cannot cope with loneliness.

I tried to plead with him but got nowhere so I told him I need a snack. At the vending machine, I spied an old friend, the Chick-O-Stick. In an attempt to lighten the moment I forced myself to get excited before turning around to tell him I found it. I rushed back to the table and exclaimed, "Daddy, look it's a Chick-O-Stick!" The look on his face was priceless, complete and utter confusion. "What is a Chick-O-Stick?" He said in his silly dad's voice. I said, "You remember, you used to get them for me at the liquor store at the corner every time you came home for the weekend. They were my favorite!" Then he said the sentence that forever changed our relationship. "Well, that's why what do you get in a liquor store!" he said laughing.

I tried to be gentle but I couldn't let the opportunity pass me by to set the record straight. At that moment I looked him square in the eye and said, "That is why you do not remember dad, but I do. I didn't get to numb it. I had to feel it. I didn't get to run. I had to stay and endure the torture, the torment, and the abuse at the hands of Doris. My brother, sister, and I were whipped, beaten, starved, stabbed, raped, and fed cockroaches for entertainment while you were at work, or drunk in hiding. I do not need you to apologize for it happening, I need you to acknowledge that it did." His eyes seemed to shake a moment before he broke down and cried.

"I never realized. I never knew, why didn't you tell me?" He managed to say between sobs.

"We did dad, but you never believed us. We did, like the time she took a sledgehammer to my leg and told you I fell down the stairs and that I was exaggerating the pain so I didn't have to go to school. You made me walk into the hospital, remember that? I do, I remember you carried me out crying after finding out how broken I really was. But still, you didn't want to accept that it was at the hands of your bride." As the words left my lips clarity swept over me, I spent my life blaming my mom for leaving and putting my father on a pedestal hiding from myself my own truth. My father was not my hero, he abandoned us, and he neglected us in cowardice.

But, that was NOT why I went to see him and it was NOT how I was going to leave. So I sat down next to him and I said, "I am so sorry that this all came out right now but it is ok, it means that we can move forward and we can finally have a real relationship because you now see me, the real me. I am a survivor, I am strong, and I love you." We spent the rest of the day making new memories and planning for the time when he would finally be free.

Today my father and I are very close, he has remarried and is very much a part of his grandchildren's lives. I am so proud of him for overcoming his struggles, cleaning up his life, and finding a way to be for his grandchildren what he couldn't be for his kids, a hero with a heart of gold.