My Personal Progenitors

I don't hate my parents. I hate my situation with them. But the situation that I have with them is so complex that I tell people that I hate my parents to keep it simple and move on.

My parents have been wanting to go out to dinner with me for a while now. So we finally went out tonight. They treated me to a wonderful Italian restaurant. I also have left overs in my fridge! Afterward, my dad had to go play music at a bar/club close by. I carried his instruments inside for him. He set up with the rest of the band, who had already started playing. As he joined them I found myself starting to cry. Even as I type this now, the tears are returning.

My dad is seventy. He is old enough to be my grandfather. For his entire life, he has played music. For over sixty years, he has played formally. For over fifty years he has played professionally. So when my father plays saxophone or clarinet, it is not just a person articulately pushing air down a tube, he is actually building an audioscape masterpiece that has been refined and chiseled for most of a lifetime. I can count the days on one hand that I was at my house and did not hear him playing.

I wanted to stay and listen so badly tonight. I wanted to be there to see him perform this masterpiece. But I felt a certain shame for tears in that moment and now I feel more shame for leaving.

I suppose I will now attempt to describe the relationship I have with my father.

My father is one of the most kind people I have ever met. His generosity is endless and infinite. There is nothing I could ever ask for that he wouldn't try to give me. But he is also cold and miserably alone. I've never seen him happy. Before I go any further, I must clarify here that we never have personal or deep conversations beyond, "How is school?" or "How are your grades." So I don't feel like I even know anything about him. There were a few times that we played catch when, but most nights he did not feel up throwing the baseball around. So I never really got the time with him as a kid, that I saw my friends having with their dads. When we are in the car alone together, we don't speak regardless of whether or not the radio is on. It's not that we don't try to talk, but it's like he can't hold up a conversation. I know his interests; sci-fi, literary classics, and jazz. Around 7th grade, I horded every scrap of Coleman Hawkins, John Coltrane, Miles Davis, and Charlie Parker that I could get my hands on. I listened to them religiously, in the hopes that it would help me build a connection with him. But that was about as successful as penguins flying. He smiles at me when he's proud. But I'm convinced it is only because I'm his son. I could just as well be his ex-druggie daughter who overcame the drug problem and he would probably be just as proud.

I suppose the worst part about this is that I recognize it is not his fault. After all he's basically like an elderly grandfather, disconnected and out of focus from the distance in time. So how could he know any differently? It would also seem the way he was raised was different too. But the real point is that for all my life my father has been a wonderful symbol of talent, nobility, and humanity. But trying to communicate with him or any of those things is more impossible than learning another language or attempting to acquire one of the many skills he has.

That is why I didn't want to leave. That is why I had to hold back the tears. That is why I can't be there to listen now.