My
father was my favorite contradiction as a child. He was both my beloved
childhood friend and the worst Disney villain. Those grey-blue eyes terrified
my seven-year old mind, but they also made me feel at home. There was a story
that could be told just by gazing into their periwinkle depths. The lines at
the sides of his temples and the ones framing his mouth also told a story, one
of enjoyment, but the deep wrinkles on his forehead and between his eyes told
of a harsh reality: 14 hour work days, hard manual labor, a desensitized and
strict military father, and a forgotten youth.
The contradiction continued. He was both
familiar and a complete stranger. It was years before I even knew his name. He
was simply dad to me. My grandma would call out to him “GUY! Guy come here!”
Several
years later I got the courage to ask my grandmother why she always called my
dad “Guy”. Why not call him by something more personal like honey or
sweetheart, or even by his real name, Dad?
“Oh Silly that is because that is
his name!” she exclaimed.
I looked at her puzzled. Guy is not a name, it is a
pronoun. Why would anyone name a man
Guy? Is that not repetitive? It was silly really, which was part of who my
father was. He walked that fine line between silly and cruel; often times
completely falling on one side or the other.
His naturally straight white teeth and inviting smile was welcoming when
he was in good spirits but they quickly turned into fangs when he was angry. His
anger only made his six-foot, 230 pound, bulky, square frame seem bigger and
even less inviting. My father’s size was intimidating in all occasions except
one, when I was lucky enough to be gifted a hug. When he held me it was as if I
had my own personal super hero and no one in the world could touch me. Even the
Boogey man would slink away from fear. But those hugs were rare. Terms of
endearment were even rarer.
“Soldier
one! Go clean the dishes! Soldier two! Go clean the bathroom! AND MAKE SURE IT
SPARKLES,” he bellowed in his military voice. It would make us quiver with fear
and confusion. He was no nonsense when he wanted to be. If his voice and
monstrous size did not express this then his crisp white shirt meticulously
tucked into his levy jeans and large leather belt adorned with a tombstone of a
buckle did. I was his princess but also his soldier to command. At a moments
notice, his five children would morph from his dirty little munchkins into an indestructible
army ready to do his bidding
What
I enjoyed the most about our contradictory connection was holding my father’s
hand as a little girl. His calloused grip enveloped my delicate porcelain skin.
His hold was deadly when it needed to be but could be the most delicate touch
when holding something that needed to be handled with care. I loved to swing
our hands back and forth as we walked together down the street. My father might
have been unabashedly cruel at times but he was also just a big man whose
military brat history ruled his every waking moment. When you stared at his
buzz cut, massive biceps, and scowl my intuition screamed danger, but then the
words “ICE CREAM!!!!” would fall out of his mouth with a childlike falsetto
twirl. What I came to understand in my adulthood was that my father was as much
a mystery and contradiction to me as he was to himself. In his mind there was a
constant battle between sensitivity and harsh reality, but either way he would
still always be my villainous best friend.
