Tell Me about Your Father

This story describes a rather brutal, teenage hazing initiation.

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR FATHER

I expect to lie on a sofa. But I sit on one across from her wooden rocker.

“So, your depression started after your father’s death. Tell me about him.” I think she likes my crooked smile filled with broken teeth from sports. Maybe I’ll just use that and dodge the question. But I slowly open the door…

“He was always more of a ‘daddy’ than a ‘dad.’ He played ball with me in the backyard…took me to town on errands…to the barbershop.”

“Tell me about playing ball.”

“He was a football player. Never played baseball. But he threw one to me endlessly in the backyard.”

“And then when we got a dog, we played fetch with her. She brought the ball almost back to him. And then laid down. He cooed soothingly, called her affectionate names, and almost gave her an Oscar. Then she trotted over to him and dropped the ball in front of his shoes! I can still hear his voice as he cajoled her to bring it those last few feet.”

“Did you cry when you got a haircut?”

“It was all adult guys except for an occasional kid. They watched the ballgame on TV or listened to it on the radio and visited about the games and what went on in town. I don’t remember crying. At the end of my haircut, the barber gave me a stick of gum.”

“The bowling alley was super fun, too. Sure, it smelled like beer and cigarettes. Listening to the sound the pins made during a strike. Watching them reset the pins. And seeing him excited when he rolled a good game. He bowled a 300 once. But I had to miss that one because it was a school night.”

“Do you bowl?”

“I’m terrible. Probably because I never asked Daddy to teach me.”

“How was he as a dad of a teen?”

“Daddy had no relationship with me after puberty. He was afraid of me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because when I was overdue for ‘the talk,’ he didn’t talk to me. He handed me a book.”

“How do you think he knew you were ready for the book?”

“Mother caught me masturbating. She said it was nasty and I should never do that again.”

“Did you stop?”

“Of course not! I was just more careful.”

“He gave you a book instead of ‘the talk’ when you were 13. And that means he was afraid of teenagers and didn’t have a relationship with you? But he didn’t hit you…or neglect you…he took you to church… paid his bills. And watched sports with you. What teams did you like most?

”The Oklahoma Sooners and the Dallas Cowboys.”

“And your dad?”

“The same.”

“Who did you most like to watch sports with?”

“I enjoyed watching with my dad’s father. We called him ‘PopPop.’ But I enjoyed watching with Daddy most of all.”

“What’s the craziest thing that happened while you watched sports with him?”

“Our neighbor’s backyard caught on fire on a warm, dry November day while we listened to the Sooners on the radio. Daddy and I ran outside and put out the fire before the fire department even got there. I grabbed our hose and turned it on. He went over closer to the fire and turned on their faucet. We sprayed it out and it was completely quenched before the first engine arrived.”

“You didn’t discuss how to do that?”

“No. We just did it. Maybe he acted on instinct. When I was little, he worked as a fireman in the summers.”

“How old were you when you guys put out that fire?”

“Probably 14.”

“What’s the most traumatic thing that ever happened in your childhood or adolescence?”

I’ve never really discussed this with anyone, except Daddy. But I begin to tell the “sanitized version”:

I lettered in football and wrestling my sophomore year. I was 16. You had to join the Lettermen’s Club to receive your letter. The older jocks ran it. They assembled us in the football stadium on Good Friday afternoon and listed ‘supplies’ we had to bring to the initiation. If we didn’t bring them, they promised severe punishment.

They asked many of my teammates for things they couldn’t possibly bring. Sex organs from farm animals. Excrement from elephants and urine from tigers. They also asked for cattle prods and frozen calf fries and cat food. Smokeless tobacco. And bricks. They used vulgar words for most of it, of course. I was shaking with fear anticipating what they’d ask me to bring. But they only asked me to bring some sanitary napkins. I stole them out of Mother’s box.

At the initiation, they put us in a circle. Dressed only in jock straps, tee shirts, and shorts. Our knees on the bricks. Right arms outstretched. Mouths stuffed with chewing tobacco. We recited an oath. If you flinched or spit, they shocked your testicles or bottom with the cattle prods. After the oath, they made the guys who didn’t bring the sex organs strip down. They paddled them naked while the rest of us watched.

“Where were the coaches?

“In an office smoking.”

“That’s inconceivable.”

“But there’s more…

Blindfolded with Kotex, we rolled around in cow manure and rubbed it into our hair. Drank salt water disguised as animal urine. And ate strange things that they said were testicles from bulls and stallions or cow patties. It was really the cat food and calf fries. Some guys threw up.

Then we took off the blindfolds and trashed our disgusting outer clothes. Dressed only in jock straps, we ran relay races with wieners or toilet paper shoved up our bottoms. The losing teams had to eat that stuff. More guys threw up. One guy slipped on the gym floor and broke his collar bone.

When it ended, they warned “don’t even think about telling your parents. If you do, we’ll give you a worse naked paddling than the guys who didn’t bring that stuff!

“Jesus! It was inside the school? You said your dad was a principal?”

“Yes. But he was a grade school principal.”

“Okay. Help me out. It’s gruesome, but your father’s not in the story…yet”

“Well, I was naked when I told Daddy about that initiation.”

“Sweet Jesus! No wonder you’re depressed.”

I can’t leave it there, I thought. Another deep breath.

I had slept naked almost every night from 11.5 years old to 16. Sure, I did those things that teenage guys do. But mostly it felt decadent and very relaxing to sleep that way. The night of the initiation, I didn’t even want to sleep naked. I pulled on PJs. Curled up into a fetal position. And sucked my thumb. I wished I’d never played sports and had stayed in the band. I didn’t masturbate for about a week either. I just wanted Mommy to sing to me and Daddy to play ball with me in the backyard.

About a week later, I finally felt like sleeping naked. I took off my PJs and pitched them to the bottom of the bed. And pulled up the blanket ready to relax. Then Daddy burst through the door! He sat down on the edge of the bed.

“Adam, let’s talk. Micah broke his collar bone. His dad went to the school board. Were you naked at that initiation?”

“Yes.” I didn’t think jockey straps counted as clothes. I pulled the covers even more tightly up around myself. Would he know I was naked if he saw a bare arm? Daddy continued…

“Were you paddled?”

“Some guys were. Not me.”

“Tell me about those relay races.”

“It’s just like you heard, except my team won. I didn’t have to eat anything.”

“Thanks for your honesty. I’m going to see the school board, too.”

I couldn’t believe he was going to the school board!

I was petrified that he’d find out I was naked under those covers. I kept pulling them up more tightly under my chin. And flattening the PJ bulge with my foot. Then he left. I shut the door. Fondled myself. And went to sleep.

“Why were you surprised that he went to the school board?”

“He was a rather timid, shy person.”

“Were you worried about the naked paddling you and Micah would get for telling your parents.”

“Daddy said the school board would see that it never happened again.”

“Did it? Seems like he was bold about protecting you. Tell me two other brave things your daddy did.”

“No; that was the last initiation. He played football in a leather helmet and survived primitive heart surgery.”

“Let’s go back to the book. How would your daddy have known that it was ‘book time’ for you? If your mother hadn’t caught you?”

“I had become taller, more athletic. I started winning wrestling matches. My voice changed. But mostly I guess because he’d seen it.”

“Seen what?”

“Nudity was casual in our house. Nobody was ashamed of it. He’d seen the changes—the little hairs sprouting in hairless places and my larger private parts.”

“Your mom condemned your masturbation. But he gave you that book. Describe the book.”

“It was evenhanded. Preached abstinence but discussed birth control. Said masturbation was normal.”

“Had you ever seen your parents argue?”

“Rarely.”

“Giving you that book directly contradicted your mother. Maybe the book spoke for him. Can you relate the book to the initiation?”

“There was no book to speak for him. So, he sucked it up and did it.”

“Did the talk about the initiation make you feel ashamed or guilty?”

“I could feel him hugging me just now…while I told you about the initiation. He was offended that I was naked during those relay races. But he didn’t criticize me or berate me. He accepted my answers without labeling them.”

“Do you wish you’d spoken to an adult before the initiation and tried to stop it?”

“Well…it had been going on for years…but yes.”

“Are you ashamed that you didn’t?”

“A little.”

“Were you ashamed to be naked under those covers?”

“No. It felt good.”

“What would he have said, if he found out?”

“He’d say, ‘I’ll be right back.’ And then hand me a book that said it’s okay to sleep naked!”

“Were you relieved when the talk ended?”

“Totally. I got up and walked naked over to the door and shut it tightly.”

“Was your daddy the right person to talk to you about that initiation?”

“Definitely.”

“And you were how old, remind me?”

“Sixteen.”

“We counselors have a fancy word for one of your daddy’s traits…empathy…”

“Did you feel guilty about wanting him to leave when the talk ended?”

“Not then. I was too excited about the fact that I was finally going to masturbate after a week and a half, that I didn’t think of anything else!”

“But now that you’ve had years to think about it, there’s something else that you wish you’d told him about giving you the book or even after the talk about the initiation.”

A leaden, heavy, uncomfortable silence descended from the ceiling.

“Why didn’t you tell him; if not then, later?”

“What????”

“How you really felt.”

The silence deepened, expanded, hardened.

“Let’s end with this. Tell me the two most significant things about the heart surgery.”

“He was so gloomy and depressed. All he did was mope around the house. I could tell it was wearing on Mother. This was back in the day when long distance calls were expensive. So, I wrote him a letter from my college dorm. I told him he needed to buck it up and have a better attitude. That I was confident God would see him through it.”

“But you weren’t confident.”

“I thought he’d die and we’d lose him.”

“How old were you when he had the surgery?”

“I just turned 19.”

“What happened after the letter?”

“He took Mother out to dinner. She told me that his attitude turned completely around. And that he kept the letter for years.”

“What terrified you the most about losing him?”

“We’d never watch the Sooners together again. He wouldn’t meet my children. Shit, he was so great with little children. His former students would see him around town and gush over how much they enjoyed having him as a principal and a teacher. One time a waitress told us that she hit him with a spit ball and he paddled her. But she was so glad to see him and treated us like kings.”

“How old was that waitress?”

“Maybe 17 or 18.”

“But he did meet your children…”

“And he was great with them, too!”

“Did you hold that all inside yourself? What you wanted to tell him and your guilt that you didn’t do it?”

“Mostly. But right before they wheeled him out for the surgery, I was sitting on the floor in his room. He was out of it.”

“Why were you on the floor?”

“No other place to sit in the tiny room. But I suddenly lost it. I began to sob and sob and sob. I couldn’t stop. And then I heard a voice coming from the ceiling. Think of a female version of Morgan Freeman. I don’t remember the exact scripture she recited. But one line was, ‘He can do all things…’”

“I assume the surgery went okay.”

I composed myself before answering.

“It was a miracle. Heart surgery in 1970 was in its infancy. But he had great doctors and a ground breaking surgeon. Hospitals and medical facilities in Oklahoma City are named after him.”

“You’ve kind of forgotten about the teenaged complaint that you and your daddy had no relationship, haven’t you?”

I couldn’t answer for a bit. Then I slowly said, “We were attending church a few years after the surgery. The minister was talking about faith. He said, let me tell you about the faith of a 55-year-old man facing heart surgery…”

“I lost it in the pew.”

“Tell me, Adam, how is bravery like faith?”

“They both require saying ‘nevertheless’ or ‘regardless.’ Regardless of the cancer, I’ll trust God. I’m facing surgery, nevertheless, I’ll let God steer me through it.”

“Did you speak at his funeral?”

“I couldn’t. I was crying too hard. The minister read what I wrote.”

“What did you praise him for in what you wrote?”

“His bravery and his faith!”

“You have one more thing to say to him. Not to me. Go visit his grave. Tell him there.”

***

I was the only one in the mausoleum. “Thank you for the book and that talk about the initiation.”

The wind wafted softly through the open door, fanning the flowers on the altar. His spirit, riding on the swirling wind, thanked me for the letter.

I read the 13th chapter of First Corinthians.

“Oh, Daddy. I forgot one important thing. Do they have bowling in heaven? When I get there, would you teach me?”

Then, I said the words to him that pronounced a benediction on a life well-lived as tears streamed down my face.