Father Knows Best
And other pernicious myths
My Geriatric Journal 8
(Note: This is a repost of a story that was lost from my archiv ewhen the publication P.S. I Love You closed.)
I read a few days ago, with great concern and recognition, a piece by a fellow Medium writer for whom I have the highest regard. When people I respect and admire allow the curtain of their lives to be pulled back a bit to reveal their most secret suffering, I listen closely.
Her father was clearly a bigot and homophobe who abused her verbally and physically. The scene she described made me relive my own experiences, memories I thought I had whitewashed with the paint of time, tolerance and forgiveness. My father-–let’s get this part out of the way immediately since it is what I most remember about him — beat me. This did not occur once or twice but with enough regularity that I am unable to remember when or why, only that it happened and happened often. I know I thought I never deserved it.
The man is long gone, of course — I am writing in my Geriatric Journal and very few people my age have their parents still around. I survived the abuse. I left home as soon as I was able and never lived with him again. I’d like to say I forgave him, but in honesty, I did not. We were eventually reconciled but it was more of a cease fire, a…
