Huh! – Is That All, I’m Going Back to Bed

I’m not sure why the event had such a profound effect on me, but it did. It has stayed with me my whole life.

Haunting me. It has driven me to always try to exceed my own expectations.

It is fair to say that I did not have a good relationship with my father. There never seemed to be time for him to do the father-son things that so many young boys enjoy.

When he did take time to play with me as a child, he was usually distracted. He would listen to the radio, catching every news update or sports game from around the world.

He always said, “I’ve only got a few minutes before the news.” It was his favorite line, even though he had heard the same news three times already.

“It hasn’t changed in the last 30 minutes,” I always wanted to say.

I don’t blame him. I think, like so many people, from what I can gather, he was the victim of the same treatment from his father. I guess he grew up thinking that was what it was to be a father.

He found a solution, though. He shipped me off to boarding school when I was ten years old. It was the start of the end. I never returned home permanently after that.

My family (father, mother, and two sisters) moved a couple of times while I was in boarding school. They said it was to keep me in one place so my education wouldn’t be disrupted by changing schools. I hated it!

I have since thought that, in his mind, it was a small price to pay. He wanted to avoid facing his failure as a father figure. So, he didn't have to relive his childhood.

There was some logic there, for my father to have spent the large sums of money to keep me there. He was a frugal man. Who else reuses teabags to save money? Or eats the dripping fat from the weekly roast instead of using butter, so it doesn't go to waste?

I get it. These were hangovers from a life in the Second World War, and maybe old habits die hard.

The six years I spent at boarding school didn't help our relationship. I only came home for term breaks. There were some attempts to reacquaint with his only son, but they were feeble at best.

My family moved to a different place when I was fifteen. A beautiful part of the world along the Great Ocean Road in Victoria, Australia. My parents ran a hotel, café, and deli, as well as a general shop that sold takeaway foods, groceries, ice cream, and other items.

It consumed him.

I remember one year when the trevally had moved into the boat harbor. A phenomenon that only occurred every couple of years due to a chain reaction of events. The sharks would chase the barracuda, which would then go on a rampage, driving the trevally into the harbor. They could get in but, for some reason, did not have the wherewithal to get out again. The same behaviour that gets them into fish traps and prevents them from getting out again, but on a larger scale.

In their thousands, they would swim around and around the harbor, much to the delight of the anglers. The longer they stayed, the hungrier they became. Soon, it was simply a matter of attaching a piece of red wool to a hook. There was no waiting. It was a slaughter.

I had taken solace in fishing through much of my childhood. It was my escape. I would take myself off and go to the river or the sea and hide in my little world.

Once my father heard about how easily these fish could be caught, he wanted to get involved. He was no fisherman, almost to the point of not being able to bait a hook.

I reluctantly agreed to take him out fishing in my small eight-foot dinghy. I was hopeful that this would be a catalyst for other times when he might come fishing with me.

We caught so many fish; it was disgusting. The bottom of the boat was covered with fish two or three deep. It was no easy feat to row back to shore with two people and a ton of slimy fish in the bottom.

When we got home, my father had a great idea. He wanted to add fresh trevally to the café's menu. It would also be a special treat for the fish and chips sold in the shop.

I was left to scale and gut the whole lot. He was far too busy to finish off the trip. Once he had his fun, the rest was up to me. That was the nature of our relationship. I was constantly trying to win his favor, and he continually turned me away.

Once I finished school, I went straight to university and lived in one of the on-campus colleges. My family had moved back to Melbourne again at this stage. I came home for weekends sometimes, but I was like a ghost to him. Still preoccupied with what suited him.

This is where my life-changing experience occurred.

I worked hard at University. I was a classic nerd.

I rarely socialized or let loose. Only on a few occasions, when the pressure built up, did I go out with a couple of friends. I always regretted that the next day. It was an era of subpar flagon wine. The sort where you could still see the stems when you got to the bottom. It had the desired effect, and it was cheap, but boy, did it give you a hangover!

For three years, I studied day and night, on weekends and during term breaks. I was relentless in my pursuit of excellence.

After the final exams, results were posted on the main notice board at the university. This happened on the evening of the last day of November. It was a big event. Many students attended and lined up to find out if their fate was sealed. Many hoped their world would change with a degree.

I queued up and was amazed when I saw my results. I scored high enough to get offers for an Honours extension in Zoology and Microbiology.

I turned down the offer to go out and party that night. I wanted to get home to tell my parents. Surely, this would be good news for my father.

I arrived home just after midnight. “Get up, Mom. Get up, Dad,” I yelled outside their bedroom door.

Mom was up like a shot. "What is it, what is going on, what has happened?” came the barrage of questions.

Some five minutes or so later, my father appeared. Not happy at all that he had been woken up.

“I did it; I passed. I now have my degree, and I have been accepted into honors in either Zoology or Microbiology!” I relayed with both excitement and relief.

My mother was over the moon. She knew how hard I had worked for this.

My father’s words were:

"Huh! Is that all? Why did you have to wake me up to tell me that? I’m going back to bed."

I wanted to hit him with all my might. I was gutted. Not even that could render any form of recognition or praise.

Those words have haunted me ever since. In some mysterious psychological way, they have been a driving force all my life. Pushing me to do better, to go harder, and driving me to impress and perhaps get a response, any response.

Many times, I have sacrificed to seek extra recognition. It was and still is a flaw in my character that I cannot shake. I am plagued by it. Even today, I seek validation from others to fill the gap left by my father's lack of support.

Many people have similar war stories. It is no different, really, from many others except for one thing:

“It is my story and my burden that I have carried. No one else's.”

Till next time,

Calvin

[Submission for the Metamorphosis of the Mind Challenge: