Honor thy...?
A few years ago I was discussing a movie with a friend. She had disliked the movie for a number of reasons, not the least of which was a scene in which the protagonist learned that an ex-girlfriend had given birth to a son he never knew existed. The ex-girlfriend tells her son that the man who raised him, "loved you like his own, but this man is your real father."
That line of dialog infuriated my friend. She (my friend, not any of the characters in the movie) had been raised by her mother and step-father, her biological father having left when she was very young. As she put it, her step-father had put the roof over her head, had taught her to ride a bike (among other things), had sat up with her when she was sick, encouraged her, and so forth. He had done all the things a father ought to do. "He is my real father!"
I understood where she was coming from. My mother's biological father, Ralph, abandoned his family when my mom was an infant. For a time my grandmother had struggled as a single mother in the 1940s trying to raise two little girls. Then Grandma met and fell in love with a wonderful man, George. They married, and George put a roof over Grandma and the girls' heads. He taught the girls, loved them, encouraged them, and yes, sat up with them when they were sick.
My mom's sister, my aunt, once told a story of a time when she and my mother, who were little girls at the time, had gotten into some mischief. It was something Grandma felt was very serious. It was so bad, that Grandma decided that their dad should punish them. When Grandpa got home from work, Grandma told him what they'd done, and said that he had to spank them (a more common practice at that time).
Grandpa didn't want to, but he did it. My aunt said that he was crying harder than they were. She and my mom agreed that they didn't really remember the spanking, but they had intense memories of their Daddy crying. He had to go into another room alone afterward to try to compose himself. My aunt said she and mom stood outside the door, pleading with him to stop crying, promising they would never be bad again.
The tale lines up pretty well with my own memories of Grandpa George. He was a tough guy. He'd worked for decades in various heavy-labor jobs, and he could be rough and stern. But he also had a heart the size of Jupiter, and an irresistible laugh.
George wanted to adopt my mom and her sister, but when the state contacted their biological father, Ralph refused to give up his parental rights. He came back and pled with Grandma to forgive him, to let him be the father he should have been. Ralph stuck around for a few years—long enough to cause some trouble and get something else he wanted—then he vanished again.
Some years later, my mom and my aunt legally adopted George (turned out to be easier that way). They were adults, then, but they wanted formal recognition that he was their real dad. If you look closely at the photo of him standing with them, holding the court papers, you can see the tears he was trying to hold back.
A few years after George died, my aunt decided that the "good, Christian thing" to do would be to try to track down her biological father and try to have some kind of reconciliation. She found him, and invited him and his wife at the time (I believe it was his fourth) to visit for about a week. She insisted that everyone come see him, even Grandma. Again, because it would be the "good, Christian thing" to do.
I was up to my neck in wrapping up a year at college and preparing for my wedding. I had no intention of driving 150 miles to my aunt's house to see this man who I barely knew and who I thought was at best a scoundrel. But when I spoke with Grandma, I could tell she was afraid: afraid to meet him, afraid of what meeting him would mean to the others in the family, afraid of how she might react. Since she lived just down the road from my aunt, she wasn't going to be able to avoid running into him.
So I told her I'd drive down and take her to the big cookout my aunt was holding for him. "We don't have to stay. We can leave whenever you want."
It was an odd and slightly awkward meeting. Maybe some of the family were trying too hard to be nice. Maybe it was too obvious that some of us didn't want to be there. Everyone was so polite and being extra personable.
Eventually, at one of those magical moments when all the conversations in a large room happen, by chance, to come to a pause, Grandma suddenly spoke up. "You know, for a long time I was very angry at you for running off, abandoning your two daughters. Twice. But then I found out that when your second wife died of cancer, that you were there at her bedside, I decided maybe I could forgive you. After all, if you hadn't left, I wouldn't have married George."
There was a stunned silence. My aunt was clearly embarrassed and jumped in to change the topic. Grandma looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. I took her aside and asked, quietly, if she wanted to leave. She grinned, "Are you kidding? Did you see those steaks and burgers on the grill? Food like that can't go to waste!"
So off we went to load down our plates and have a good time.
Some months later, my aunt asked me why I had barely talked to Ralph when he visited, and why I didn't write or otherwise keep in touch with him. "Don't you think you should get to know your real grandfather before he dies?"
I don't know if she liked my answer: "I knew my real grandfather very well. George is my Grandpa. That man who abandoned his wife and kids? He is not my grandfather."
People throw around the world "real" a lot:
Whether the exclusion is a matter is malice or oversight, if called on it, most people play the biological card.
I have to reject that. Unless we are discussing genetic medical disorders, who we love, and who loves us, is more important than the mere accidents of DNA. The step-father who did the hard work, shared the tears and triumphs, and made the effort to be there day after day is the real dad. The same holds true for adoptive fathers, and people who may never formalize a legal relationship with the child or the child's other parent. If they were there, loving and caring for the child, they are as real as any father can be.
Originally published 16 June, 2011.
That line of dialog infuriated my friend. She (my friend, not any of the characters in the movie) had been raised by her mother and step-father, her biological father having left when she was very young. As she put it, her step-father had put the roof over her head, had taught her to ride a bike (among other things), had sat up with her when she was sick, encouraged her, and so forth. He had done all the things a father ought to do. "He is my real father!"
I understood where she was coming from. My mother's biological father, Ralph, abandoned his family when my mom was an infant. For a time my grandmother had struggled as a single mother in the 1940s trying to raise two little girls. Then Grandma met and fell in love with a wonderful man, George. They married, and George put a roof over Grandma and the girls' heads. He taught the girls, loved them, encouraged them, and yes, sat up with them when they were sick.
My mom's sister, my aunt, once told a story of a time when she and my mother, who were little girls at the time, had gotten into some mischief. It was something Grandma felt was very serious. It was so bad, that Grandma decided that their dad should punish them. When Grandpa got home from work, Grandma told him what they'd done, and said that he had to spank them (a more common practice at that time).
Grandpa didn't want to, but he did it. My aunt said that he was crying harder than they were. She and my mom agreed that they didn't really remember the spanking, but they had intense memories of their Daddy crying. He had to go into another room alone afterward to try to compose himself. My aunt said she and mom stood outside the door, pleading with him to stop crying, promising they would never be bad again.
The tale lines up pretty well with my own memories of Grandpa George. He was a tough guy. He'd worked for decades in various heavy-labor jobs, and he could be rough and stern. But he also had a heart the size of Jupiter, and an irresistible laugh.
George wanted to adopt my mom and her sister, but when the state contacted their biological father, Ralph refused to give up his parental rights. He came back and pled with Grandma to forgive him, to let him be the father he should have been. Ralph stuck around for a few years—long enough to cause some trouble and get something else he wanted—then he vanished again.
Some years later, my mom and my aunt legally adopted George (turned out to be easier that way). They were adults, then, but they wanted formal recognition that he was their real dad. If you look closely at the photo of him standing with them, holding the court papers, you can see the tears he was trying to hold back.
A few years after George died, my aunt decided that the "good, Christian thing" to do would be to try to track down her biological father and try to have some kind of reconciliation. She found him, and invited him and his wife at the time (I believe it was his fourth) to visit for about a week. She insisted that everyone come see him, even Grandma. Again, because it would be the "good, Christian thing" to do.
I was up to my neck in wrapping up a year at college and preparing for my wedding. I had no intention of driving 150 miles to my aunt's house to see this man who I barely knew and who I thought was at best a scoundrel. But when I spoke with Grandma, I could tell she was afraid: afraid to meet him, afraid of what meeting him would mean to the others in the family, afraid of how she might react. Since she lived just down the road from my aunt, she wasn't going to be able to avoid running into him.
So I told her I'd drive down and take her to the big cookout my aunt was holding for him. "We don't have to stay. We can leave whenever you want."
It was an odd and slightly awkward meeting. Maybe some of the family were trying too hard to be nice. Maybe it was too obvious that some of us didn't want to be there. Everyone was so polite and being extra personable.
Eventually, at one of those magical moments when all the conversations in a large room happen, by chance, to come to a pause, Grandma suddenly spoke up. "You know, for a long time I was very angry at you for running off, abandoning your two daughters. Twice. But then I found out that when your second wife died of cancer, that you were there at her bedside, I decided maybe I could forgive you. After all, if you hadn't left, I wouldn't have married George."
There was a stunned silence. My aunt was clearly embarrassed and jumped in to change the topic. Grandma looked as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders. I took her aside and asked, quietly, if she wanted to leave. She grinned, "Are you kidding? Did you see those steaks and burgers on the grill? Food like that can't go to waste!"
So off we went to load down our plates and have a good time.
Some months later, my aunt asked me why I had barely talked to Ralph when he visited, and why I didn't write or otherwise keep in touch with him. "Don't you think you should get to know your real grandfather before he dies?"
I don't know if she liked my answer: "I knew my real grandfather very well. George is my Grandpa. That man who abandoned his wife and kids? He is not my grandfather."
People throw around the world "real" a lot:
- Our religion is "real," theirs is not.
- Our achievements are "real," but because they haven't married/had children/gotten that corner office/worked with their hands, theirs is not.
- Our hopes and dreams are "real," but because they don't live like we do, theirs are not.
- Our marriage is "real," but because theirs doesn't conform to a definition cobbled together by cherry-picking some parts of our sacred text (while completely ignoring many others), theirs are not.
Whether the exclusion is a matter is malice or oversight, if called on it, most people play the biological card.
I have to reject that. Unless we are discussing genetic medical disorders, who we love, and who loves us, is more important than the mere accidents of DNA. The step-father who did the hard work, shared the tears and triumphs, and made the effort to be there day after day is the real dad. The same holds true for adoptive fathers, and people who may never formalize a legal relationship with the child or the child's other parent. If they were there, loving and caring for the child, they are as real as any father can be.
It is not flesh and blood but the heart which makes us fathers and sons. ~Johann Schiller
Originally published 16 June, 2011.