"Wisdom is not in words.
Wisdom is meaning within words."
[Kahlil Gibran, "The Sayings of the Brook"]
Wisdom is meaning within words."
[Kahlil Gibran, "The Sayings of the Brook"]
My father is a good and simple man.
He and I could probably not be more different. He worked with his hands all his life, while I've always relied on my brain. He can't read or write, while I've attended universities, studied programming, etc. He is often quiet and when he does speak slurs his words (he's hard of hearing) such that even I after all these years still have trouble understanding him, while I speak two languages and am known for my verbosity (and vocabulary, I guess).
Whenever we sit together in a room, we have almost nothing to say to each other. He'll ask me how work is going, but beyond telling him I enjoy my job or that I got a raise, there is little more that I could explain to him that he'd understand. I don't know that he's ever set eyes on a computer monitor. When people ask him what I do he just tells them I work with "pewders" and that I'm doing well, making good money at it, and that I'm a really smart boy.
Needless perhaps to say, a man such as my father is grossly underestimated by most people who meet him. In this day and age it's all about how much money you make, how many letters come after your name on your business card, how many Armani suits are in your closet, and whether your "beamer" is 5 gears or 6, right? *shaking head* At times I think even my own sisters underestimate him somewhat. I definitely think they often fail to understand him. I'm not saying I'm quite sure I do, but sometimes as we sit quietly in his living room, not knowing what to say to each other because we really have nothing in common to talk about, I look at him, I look at our relationship, I look at my youth, at his relationship with my mother, and there, in the silence, a certain wordless wisdom makes so much sense to me, and I realize that for all my verbosity, all my education, all my "sophistication", there are just some things in this world, some very beautiful things, that remain simple and precious and that all of human evolution has never changed or improved upon. Things he understands, though he'd never be able to explain.
My brother once wrote something about him in one of those E-mail surveys that went around; it surprised one of my sisters when she read it. Asked about his parents his comment on Dad was something to the effect that he was 'a far greater man than many who consider him their lesser.'
He stood by my mother all through her descent into being a quadrapelegic. He changed his work hours and worked whatever shifts were necessary to allow him to care for her at home and still bring home what little money he could muster in order to support his family. He understands things like loyalty and commitment.
I overheard a heated argument between my parents once when I was young. My mother asked my father if he'd ever hit her, the way his father, whom he idolized to an extent, had done with his mother. Mom knew he never would, and I think I heard his heart break when she even suggested it, there in the middle of an explosive debate. I hear people talk about "cycles of abuse" and I shake my head. You don't hit people you love. Pretty fucking simple when you think about it. "Moonie", as some of the neighbours dubbed him, figured it out.
He has always made it plain to me that whatever happens, there will always be a roof over my head and a bed for me to lie in. I can always come back. He reminds me of this almost every time I visit him. He understands family. My sisters failed to understand quite why he didn't want to sell the house after Mom died, or why, in spite of the fact that he's only there about 3 days a week now, he still refuses. It's not about him. It's about being a father and making sure his children always have the security of knowing there is that refuge if they need it.
After one of my sisters broke up with her on-again-off-again boyfriend once, he came to the house looking to speak with her. My father met him at the door and lied to him, insisting Nancy wasn't home. He told the boy, "there's two ways you can go back down those front steps: you can walk, or I can throw you." When Nancy heard later from her (on-again) boyfriend what Dad had said, she expressed to me how pissed off about it she was. 'He doesn't understand! Barry was coming over to try to sort things out. See, Dad just doesn't understand these things.' I looked at her and said, 'I think he understands perfectly. Someone broke his daughter's heart, and he wasn't going to afford him an opportunity to do it again. He understands that he loves you. What more is there for him to get?'
Many times in my life I've done things that my sisters insisted would not meet with Dad's approval, especially because he was so "old-fashioned". But Dad would forgive any one of us for anything. We are all 'prodigal sons and daughters', no matter what we do. He knows what it is to truly love someone, and what it means to support them in a time of crisis.
He cheats a little on his diet sometimes. (He's diabetic.) Nancy knows, of course, and thinks him foolish for believing he can slip it past her. What she probably doesn't realize is that he knows she'll find out from the moment he does it. He just likes his freedom, and likes bending the rules a little every now and then to enjoy himself.
There was a day, just once, months or maybe a year ago, I can't remember exactly when, that we sat in his living room and talked. And that day, rather than the usual "Work is good. How's your latest girlfriend?" conversation we so routinely have, he just opened up and started talking. He told me all about what things were like in the house when I was young. I suddenly saw this whole new perspective on my family and my youth. A different angle I'd never considered. And there, in that afternoon, chatting about my mother and my sisters and brother, he opened a whole world before my eyes just by telling me a few simple truths I'd never before realized.
I could read the works of Lao Tzu, or Buddha, or Gibran for years and not have the eye-opening that I got that day just because he chose to express to me, after all these years, a few simple truths I'd not noticed along the way.
And whenever I visit him now, we go through the same routine as we always did before: my work is good, how is his girlfriend doing, are you getting out to many dances, is Nancy still bugging you about your diet. And I don't know that we will ever have that powerful conversation again like we did that afternoon, but that's ok. I content myself with the wordless tranquility that comes from just sitting in my old living room, watching his eyes as they comb over the pictures on the mantlepiece.
For all the computers and palm pilots and cell phones and multi-national multi-million dollar website projects overseas, there are some things about this world that have never, that must never, change. Fundamental things. Simple things. Understood by simple people, perhaps better than by the cell phone weilding, palm pilot carrying ones.
My father will never read this. He can't. And I'd consider printing it and going to read it to him, but he'd still not understand half of what I've said or why.
But the next time I see him I'll give him a smile and a hug and tell him how I've missed him. Because the truly important things in life, like hugging someone you love when you've not seen them in a while, to let them know you missed and love them... this he understands perfectly.
If only those people who 'consider him their lesser' did, this world might, fundamentally, be a simpler, better place.
He and I could probably not be more different. He worked with his hands all his life, while I've always relied on my brain. He can't read or write, while I've attended universities, studied programming, etc. He is often quiet and when he does speak slurs his words (he's hard of hearing) such that even I after all these years still have trouble understanding him, while I speak two languages and am known for my verbosity (and vocabulary, I guess).
Whenever we sit together in a room, we have almost nothing to say to each other. He'll ask me how work is going, but beyond telling him I enjoy my job or that I got a raise, there is little more that I could explain to him that he'd understand. I don't know that he's ever set eyes on a computer monitor. When people ask him what I do he just tells them I work with "pewders" and that I'm doing well, making good money at it, and that I'm a really smart boy.
Needless perhaps to say, a man such as my father is grossly underestimated by most people who meet him. In this day and age it's all about how much money you make, how many letters come after your name on your business card, how many Armani suits are in your closet, and whether your "beamer" is 5 gears or 6, right? *shaking head* At times I think even my own sisters underestimate him somewhat. I definitely think they often fail to understand him. I'm not saying I'm quite sure I do, but sometimes as we sit quietly in his living room, not knowing what to say to each other because we really have nothing in common to talk about, I look at him, I look at our relationship, I look at my youth, at his relationship with my mother, and there, in the silence, a certain wordless wisdom makes so much sense to me, and I realize that for all my verbosity, all my education, all my "sophistication", there are just some things in this world, some very beautiful things, that remain simple and precious and that all of human evolution has never changed or improved upon. Things he understands, though he'd never be able to explain.
My brother once wrote something about him in one of those E-mail surveys that went around; it surprised one of my sisters when she read it. Asked about his parents his comment on Dad was something to the effect that he was 'a far greater man than many who consider him their lesser.'
He stood by my mother all through her descent into being a quadrapelegic. He changed his work hours and worked whatever shifts were necessary to allow him to care for her at home and still bring home what little money he could muster in order to support his family. He understands things like loyalty and commitment.
I overheard a heated argument between my parents once when I was young. My mother asked my father if he'd ever hit her, the way his father, whom he idolized to an extent, had done with his mother. Mom knew he never would, and I think I heard his heart break when she even suggested it, there in the middle of an explosive debate. I hear people talk about "cycles of abuse" and I shake my head. You don't hit people you love. Pretty fucking simple when you think about it. "Moonie", as some of the neighbours dubbed him, figured it out.
He has always made it plain to me that whatever happens, there will always be a roof over my head and a bed for me to lie in. I can always come back. He reminds me of this almost every time I visit him. He understands family. My sisters failed to understand quite why he didn't want to sell the house after Mom died, or why, in spite of the fact that he's only there about 3 days a week now, he still refuses. It's not about him. It's about being a father and making sure his children always have the security of knowing there is that refuge if they need it.
After one of my sisters broke up with her on-again-off-again boyfriend once, he came to the house looking to speak with her. My father met him at the door and lied to him, insisting Nancy wasn't home. He told the boy, "there's two ways you can go back down those front steps: you can walk, or I can throw you." When Nancy heard later from her (on-again) boyfriend what Dad had said, she expressed to me how pissed off about it she was. 'He doesn't understand! Barry was coming over to try to sort things out. See, Dad just doesn't understand these things.' I looked at her and said, 'I think he understands perfectly. Someone broke his daughter's heart, and he wasn't going to afford him an opportunity to do it again. He understands that he loves you. What more is there for him to get?'
Many times in my life I've done things that my sisters insisted would not meet with Dad's approval, especially because he was so "old-fashioned". But Dad would forgive any one of us for anything. We are all 'prodigal sons and daughters', no matter what we do. He knows what it is to truly love someone, and what it means to support them in a time of crisis.
He cheats a little on his diet sometimes. (He's diabetic.) Nancy knows, of course, and thinks him foolish for believing he can slip it past her. What she probably doesn't realize is that he knows she'll find out from the moment he does it. He just likes his freedom, and likes bending the rules a little every now and then to enjoy himself.
There was a day, just once, months or maybe a year ago, I can't remember exactly when, that we sat in his living room and talked. And that day, rather than the usual "Work is good. How's your latest girlfriend?" conversation we so routinely have, he just opened up and started talking. He told me all about what things were like in the house when I was young. I suddenly saw this whole new perspective on my family and my youth. A different angle I'd never considered. And there, in that afternoon, chatting about my mother and my sisters and brother, he opened a whole world before my eyes just by telling me a few simple truths I'd never before realized.
I could read the works of Lao Tzu, or Buddha, or Gibran for years and not have the eye-opening that I got that day just because he chose to express to me, after all these years, a few simple truths I'd not noticed along the way.
And whenever I visit him now, we go through the same routine as we always did before: my work is good, how is his girlfriend doing, are you getting out to many dances, is Nancy still bugging you about your diet. And I don't know that we will ever have that powerful conversation again like we did that afternoon, but that's ok. I content myself with the wordless tranquility that comes from just sitting in my old living room, watching his eyes as they comb over the pictures on the mantlepiece.
For all the computers and palm pilots and cell phones and multi-national multi-million dollar website projects overseas, there are some things about this world that have never, that must never, change. Fundamental things. Simple things. Understood by simple people, perhaps better than by the cell phone weilding, palm pilot carrying ones.
My father will never read this. He can't. And I'd consider printing it and going to read it to him, but he'd still not understand half of what I've said or why.
But the next time I see him I'll give him a smile and a hug and tell him how I've missed him. Because the truly important things in life, like hugging someone you love when you've not seen them in a while, to let them know you missed and love them... this he understands perfectly.
If only those people who 'consider him their lesser' did, this world might, fundamentally, be a simpler, better place.
