Column: For Auld Lang Syne
“For Old Times Sake,” I had told myself, amid a long-winded contemplative breath. I anticipated what would lay on the other side of that door-the entrance to my estranged father’s home. After leaving home at 15 years old, three Christmases passed without seeing my own father. While trying to rekindle a relationship with him throughout the fall of this year, I thought that a quick unexpected holiday appearance would be appropriate. Not only that, but, I genuinely believed it would be seen as a gesture of hospitality and maybe a brief moment of acceptance and love that could be reciprocated towards me from the one person who is supposed to give you unconditional love and support.
Upon walking into my family’s house uninvited, I found it to be uncannily clean looking, however, there lived a permeating aroma-a-mix between San Francisco and the Albertsons sea-food section. I headed straight towards the living room with my dad nowhere to be found. Instead, I crossed paths with my stepmother, who in absolute disgust of my presence exclaimed “Oh.. what are you doing here!” My stepmother said.. Before I said anything too petty my sister interrupted, “Do you know where Dad is?”. My stepmother in a fit of confusion responded,” Yeah, umm, he’s upstairs,”. Prompting my sister to lead the charge upstairs out of that awkward mess.
Walking up the stairs with child-like anticipation, eager to just see my long missed dad, I kept thinking to myself, [This is it Brody, dad is gonna love this, he’s gonna embrace me with love like a dad should, he’s gonna give me the biggest hug just like the good old days, the good old days.]
We made it up to the upstairs hallway, where my Dad had just walked out carrying two janky little birdhouses,. “Merry Christmas Dad!” I shouted while hugging him. He just stood frozen with not even a robotic expression on his face, the man would’ve felt more emotion staring at a bucket of paint drying on the wall. “Hey,” my father said in a monotone expression. I desperately tried again to find some sort of love from my own dad. “I just wanted to come over and say hi for Christmas, so here I am, Merry Christmas!” I said.
The Old Man eye’s never made contact with me only with the cold barren ground. “You know I would’ve gotten you something if you had told me you were coming,” he said with a gray tone. Wanting to just show appreciation to just see my dad after three years of distance I politely refused any gift, “No, no, Dad, thanks anyways!” I laughed, “You don’t need to get me anything I’m happy just to see you!” I said. While I explained it he looked at his stupid birdhouses and responded, “Ok buddy, I gotta get back on these, it was good seeing you.” My father said he walked into the other room. As he shut the door I turned to my side, and my sister also disappeared into her room. I walked back down the stairs in dissatisfaction, confusion, and a little bit of anger..
At least I got to see my Dad. I’d thought maybe he’d text me later and express his appreciation for the visit.
Later that evening, the text did come, but the response was far from what I expected. It centered on how I had hurt him, how I should be sorry for leaving him, and that I owed him for my own accomplishments. Both he and my stepmother were pestering my little sister about the events of that day. Fueled by raw anger and rage, I grabbed my keys, ready to go back and confront my father man-to-man. My mother intervened, preventing me from making any drastic decisions. In tears, I took a walk on that cold Christmas night.
The culmination of years of pent-up anger and frustration found an outlet in my fist meeting a concrete wall. My knuckle bled a little, triggering a memory of my mother recounting a story about my father’s terrifying rage, punching a hole in our home’s wall. As I sat on the street curb, tears streaming, I realized I was becoming my dad.
This realization plunged me into an abyss of horror within a deeper self-reflection. Looking at my scratched-up knuckle, the search was a goose chase, there was never ‘The good old times’. I understood that all the components that made my dad were the same in me, in my grandfather before me, and his father before him. Every hero and villain originates from a point of hurt and pain. This moment was my choice; continue the damage of my last name or take it for myself and contribute something good to this world, the man my father never was.
While writing this in that janky little Starbucks off Reino Rd, I witnessed a father and son together, the joy in the child’s eyes melted my heart. This moment sparked a desire to have a son and be the father my dad never was. I had always been afraid of myself as I assumed I would inevitably become my biological father and there was nothing I could do about it, but that Christmas night changed me. I want to be different, to be a force for good. I’ve already hurt too many people with my charisma, but it doesn’t have to be that way. This is my accountability, a commitment to being the person my dad should’ve been. We both started from the same place, but I will be different for the world’s sake. My dad, despite his traumatic circumstances, is very charismatic and the most creative human I have ever met. I share the same blood, and the same components both the ugly and the amazing. With these tools and experiences, I am now obligated to be a force for good in the world, hoping that I’ll eventually be able to take a cup of kindness for all future Auld Lang Synes.
