Remember that phrase?
Every son wants his father to be tough. Sons define themselves in relation to fathers. Fathers are important role models for their sons, and yes, I imagine that some of the rhetoric from the various fatherhood web sites I saw (which I’ll get back to working on and posting, I swear!) has some validity – children without a strong presence of a father can suffer greatly.
But of course, if by “strong” we mean “can beat up” people – including the child’s mother, to say nothing of the child – then that’s probably a presence we can do without.
There were a few dads I feared growing up — and a few moms, too; more than one of them I heard threaten their children by saying, “I’ll break your face!” These were not all the dads of course, but the sense of a man who could pop off at any time was a scary thing, and it’s not surprising if children’s images of “man” seem so troubling. Men hit. Men yell. Men rage. Men leave. This is not a model that works for anyone, boy or girl.
My father was not a man, by these definitions.
He never raised his fist at any of us. He never wanted to get into a fight with any of the other dads. He was not someone who believed in discipline by threats.
He was a fear-monger at times, but not through his own personal rage. He often criticized because he saw potentially dangerous future outcomes, as in “watch out, or you’ll fall.” Even so, he could recognize some of the futility of parental warnings, by quoting his own mother’s bizarre warning to him when he was a lad: “you get hit by a car, I’ll kill you!”
I suppose my dad was like a lot of others. He worked hard at his job, and the last thing he’d want to do was to have to discipline his children. His job was also an abstract one, in an office, rather than one where you could see the work he did – like an electrician, or a construction worker.
My dad was however a typical guy in terms of his love of sports. He was a big baseball fan, and enjoyed the other major sports as well. We watched a lot of games on TV together, and went to many in person. Reflecting back, I’d say his love was not fanatical, which was actually healthy. I was too attached at different times in my life and I’ve really stepped back. He hasn’t lived and died with any sports results since the Dodgers left Brooklyn.
But interestingly enough, it was not his father got him hooked on baseball; it was his aunt, who was actually pretty close in age to him, who took him to Ebbets Field and who screamed and shouted and cheered for Jackie Robinson and the rest of the “Bums” of Flatbush. So even there, my father stands out somewhat atypically.
My father’s sense of manhood was this: you work hard, you take care of your family, and give as much love as you can. Try not to lose too much hair doing it. Or sleep. Not a bad way to go, after all.