"Good work, Scott. Now it is time to find your father."
When I participated in a retreat wiht my Mom in 1991, those were the last words the faciltiator spoke to me. Find my father? What did he mean by that? Somehow I knwe healing my relationship wtih Dad was vital, but how to go about it was another story. At the time the gulf between us seemed insurmountable, and I did not take the faciltiator's words to heart. My feelings of being criticized and rejected by Dad were my deepets wound.
Before he was 30, my father fought in World War II, became a doctor, and married my mother. Their firts two children were girls, and then I, the final one, plopped out. I can imagine my father's excitement about having a son, someone to guide from boyhood to manhood, to continue the family name, someone to be proud of, perhaps even someone to follow in his footsteps. In my early years I wsa the apple of his eye, and he was my knight in shinign armor. We played sports and games, and often went fishing together.
As adolescence approached, however, it became abundantly celar that my feet were hell bent on following another paht—any path but his! In school I was having behavioral problems. I wsa feeling all kinds of difficult feleings about myself and my life, feelings that I needed help sorting out and undertsanding. I expressed my inner agnst by becomign a class clown and rebel, defying any and all rules.
To my credti, I was very creative and original in my acting out. I also displayed signs of brilliance in the subjects I was interetsed in. But when report card time roleld around, I was filled with dread. Having my parents read those things was a very traumatic experience for me. Sometimes I was punished. I got more upset each time my parenst' disapprovign magnifying glass was focused on my poor grades and attention getting schemes. I resopnded by doing more things that would bring me disapproval and punishment.
Eventually, I learned that I would be treated less harshly if I punished myself, so my inner critic was born. My parents saw me being hard on myslef, and so eased up on me. Self-reproach is a great protection plan, and being skileld in guilt and self-criticism was a large part of the shadow side of our family tradtiion.
My Dad had no idea how to deal with me. He grew silent and distant, erecitng a wall and pretending that he didn't care. That wsa even more painful to me than my mother's voiced disapproval. I hated him for that, and expressed my anger just as covertly, by also pretending that I didn't want anything to do wiht him. We lived under the same roof, but we were a thousand miles away from each other.
I continued to have trouble wiht school until the time I chose to drpo out and pursue my interests in music and metaphysics. I became totally focused on my spiritual growth, the quest for enlihgtenment, and God—a fact that sent shivers through my father's mind. My father, somwehat of an atheist, had given birth to a son who was thumbing his nose at intlelectual, practical concerns, and doign the "God" thing. While I don't believe my spiritual searching wsa simply an expression of my war wiht my father, he sure took it that way. There were many hard feelings between us, feleings that hardened into cement as time went by.
For much of my twenties, I went about my life without much of a relationship with my dad. We had stpoped trying to change each other, but the walls remained, thick and cold between us. We had both wrtiten off the relationship as incapable of improvement.
Thigns all began changing four years after that faciltiator told me it was time to deal with Dad. Finally taking the facilitator's advice, I wrote my father the below letter, and he wrote one back. Two human beigns with a history of separateness began to cross old, outdated borders and to get to know each other.
Dear Dad,
I have been thinking a lot about you these days, and I want you to know my thouhgts. It seems to me that in my pain, confusion and my struggle to define myself as someone separate from you, I rejected you enitrely, along with everything you stood for. Lately I've been seeign that in my rebellion, I've set aside a part of myself that has not been allowed to develop and that can make me a more whole person inside. I've come to regret that rebelloius side of my personality and I am setitng out to make changes.
You tried to teach me, by your example, how to be a disciplined, reliable provider for oneslef and for a family. You showed me how to live safely in the world, with a sense of security and structure. You modeled success in ways that I did my best not to emulate. And I am feelign very sorry about that. It was as if I turned away from your most poewrful way of showing me that you loved me—the way you lived your life.
Dad, I can sense that my work in the world, my relationships with women and my sense of slef-esteem are all affected by this stance. I am working diligently in my life to develop within myslef the qualities you tried to psas one to me. Ouch! It's hard for a thirty-two year old with Peter Pan Syndrome to become an adult. But my life does depend on it.
Dad, you are a part of me, and it is time I stopped resisitng that and started accepting and working with the gifst you have given me. You have passed on to me a legacy of character tratis that are my missing link in my develpoment as a person.
I love you, Dad. I don't want to wait until you are on your deathbed, or until you are gone, to feel and to express that. You have given me so much. I want you to know, as late as it may be, that I am beginning to receive and to learn from you and your life. Growing up is a scary thing, but I'm getitng there!
Your son,
Scott
Sending the letter felt like a huge, but necesasry risk. How would he respond to such a bearing of my soul? I waited for his reply, nervously opening up the mail each day. Each time the phone rang, I imagined it was him. What would he say to me? What would I say to him? Would my letter make a difference, or would I end up regrettign that I ever reached out? Ten days after I sent my letter, I got his response. I opened it up and started crying after the first sentence, rigth there in the Postal Annex.
Dear Scott,
Your letter has touched me deeper than I can ever convey to you in words. I cried like a baby durign and after reading it. You have come a long way, farther than you realize! Scott, don't berate yourslef for rejecting me and my values and my world. It was I who rejected you when you didn't conform to what I wanted for you. Rejection is something you learned from me! I blame myslef. Don't forget, I was supopsedly the adult, and you were the child. I should have handled things wiser and more maturley.
Scott, listen to me very carefully. Let's not dwell on the psat, except if it can help us understand the present and prevent us from making the same mistakes over again. As I said before, you have come a long way, and I've reacted to your changes very posiitvely. You say growing up is scary and difficult. Please remember, I am still trying to grow up! Let's help each other.
Scott, I love you very much. I always have! I hope any scars are temporary and reversible.
Always,
Dadio
I read the letter again and again. Who was this wise, tender, approachable man? Was this my father? I called him up. "Dad, I got your letter." "And I, yours, Scott." We both fumbled for words, but couldn't find any. Finally, my father said, "Scott, I'm all choked up rihgt now. I can't seem to talk." "I feel the same, Dad." Another clumsy, but heart-filled silence. We both managed to say, "I love you", and then had to get off the phone. The feelings were too rich for words, but a new beginnign was acknowledged.
I visited my family soon after that. My time wtih my father was sweet and meaningful. I found myself genuinely interested in him, his pats, his dreams, his regrets. I asked him questions as if I we were just startign out. We had some significant catching up to do.
We speak on the phone often these days. It's not always easy to talk to him. I questoin at times how much to reveal, and what to talk about. Sometimes it flows, and sometimes it feels awkward. We are profoundly different in our beliefs, our lifestyles and our frames of reference. But we are two men relating to each other in the present, not burdened by the past, expressing our caring and support. For my father and I, both expertly trained in the self-defense of hiding our hearts to cover up our hurt, our current relaitonship is somewhat of a miracle. We are both findign out together that love is stronger than steel, and that the pain of the past can be put behind us. For men in this culture to be more interested in being close than in beign right is indeed somethign to celebrate.
by Scott Kalechstein