My father drives a blue truck; a mid-80's Toyota, a '76 Chevy stepside, a 1970 Chevy C30 with sling-wrecker, a '67 Ford 5100. The interior is dusty and the plastic parts of the dashboard are sun-bleached and cracked. The foam visible beneath is brownish-gold and create a grit that salts the floor mats. The seats are covered in wool tweed that is striped in the center of the bench. It lends the car a smell that edges away from the industrial and grease-spattered smell of a machine, toward the wet animal scent that will make me believe Stephen King that cars can come to life.
It's this truck from which the rest of these songs will play. The denim jacket or plaid flannel my father is wearing will creep up his reaching wrist and expose the bones and hair of his arm as he shifts gears of his truck. The heater bakes the sun into my clothing with a gale force from the vents well-polished by the oil of the same hand flipping them.
The truck rattles, things swing from various rear-view mirrors, the glove box has the corner of a map sticking out, and radio crackles to life, the CB buzzes soft and quiet, and he is singing to the radio in an unselfconscious way that makes me feel the same as being on a date with a popular boy, although I won't be able to compare the two for another 12 or 13 years. He is singing a song to me, which becomes harmlessly about me, my lullaby song, and then our song. It's the first time a song will ever be dedicated to me, about his favorite part of me - that I have his eyes.
The kind of woman your father liked and what that meant about him.
The fragility of the girl my father falls in love with, by which I mean her outward femininity, is something that he intends to erode over time to reveal something stronger than he knows himself to be, the way water is applied to stone until it polishes rock away to reveal diamond. His primary objective in their relationship is to be the thing which has done all such eroding. He knows he can't afford her a better life, or an easier one. He will be the hardest thing to deal with, if his children aren't, if he can stay to see her raise them at all. Considering how he finds the girl through which he can see the queen is something I'm unsure of, as far as how the boy of him might do that, without a crude and justified harrowing that leaves them both the faith of each other.
His favorite movies and what that meant about him.
My father loves movies of any kind, because he loves romance. In this way, I think we're alike, as perhaps not romantic creatures ourselves, but creatures who love romance and to be romanced, less by lovers and more by the poetry of life itself. This song comes on at the right time, as the sun is getting long and slanting gold light in through my window from across the fields we pass. He squints as the light hits his eyes and loses his thoughts to the cinema of this moment, perhaps likening it to Easy Rider, or North by Northwest, or The Wall.
His sense of humor. Did you inherit it?
My father is a clown, in all the permutations of one; Jester, Pagliacci, Harlequin, Pierrot, and so on. The buffoon gives way to the despondent straight-man, who darkens fast and without warning to the venomous satirist, all of them innocent in the face of that which they are mocking. The world to the clown is one where there is respect for nothing; only a gentle and easily-packed-away affection for the thing you are attempting to murder for the sake of making your point. Kindness slides inverse to how funny they think something might be. Even Jim, steeping in his Southern charm, grows the black fervor of political paranoia in an election year, or when a war is declared. This is one of a few points he leans back in his seat, resting his fingers at the base of the steering wheel, and stepping slightly on the gas as he lights a smoke. Because we're having fun now, baby. And we are.What did he want from life? If you don't know, guess.
My father is a clown, in all the permutations of one; Jester, Pagliacci, Harlequin, Pierrot, and so on. The buffoon gives way to the despondent straight-man, who darkens fast and without warning to the venomous satirist, all of them innocent in the face of that which they are mocking. The world to the clown is one where there is respect for nothing; only a gentle and easily-packed-away affection for the thing you are attempting to murder for the sake of making your point. Kindness slides inverse to how funny they think something might be. Even Jim, steeping in his Southern charm, grows the black fervor of political paranoia in an election year, or when a war is declared. This is one of a few points he leans back in his seat, resting his fingers at the base of the steering wheel, and stepping slightly on the gas as he lights a smoke. Because we're having fun now, baby. And we are.What did he want from life? If you don't know, guess.
What did he act like he wanted?
My fathers are all dragons, and dragons only want one thing: to know. We lose the light while he smokes and he takes this opportunity to give a sermon on what he knows of the world.
My fathers are all dragons, and dragons only want one thing: to know. We lose the light while he smokes and he takes this opportunity to give a sermon on what he knows of the world.
The last time you were mad at him, why were you?
I honest to God can't remember specifically, but our temperaments dictate that he said something he didn't mean, and I said back that I hated him. I can't remember any details, but I know there's no worse feeling in the world. Angry fathers are perhaps any girl's first experience with heartbreak, and the romance it takes to restore them to being whole again. It's from him I become spoiled to be sung apologies to on a guitar, and learn to expect these late-night rides from boys in my high school.
I honest to God can't remember specifically, but our temperaments dictate that he said something he didn't mean, and I said back that I hated him. I can't remember any details, but I know there's no worse feeling in the world. Angry fathers are perhaps any girl's first experience with heartbreak, and the romance it takes to restore them to being whole again. It's from him I become spoiled to be sung apologies to on a guitar, and learn to expect these late-night rides from boys in my high school.
What did he think it meant to be a man? Was he right?
As any dragon, I think my father's manhood lies in the struggle between his integrity, and his devotion to love and magic, and how one can come to define the other. The true measure of a man, to my father, is his ability to stay afloat through the madness of his cul-de-sacs of reason.
As any dragon, I think my father's manhood lies in the struggle between his integrity, and his devotion to love and magic, and how one can come to define the other. The true measure of a man, to my father, is his ability to stay afloat through the madness of his cul-de-sacs of reason.
What wouldn't you have survived without him and why?
Adam.
What was something he seemed to know everything about?
As a baby, anything of bright color was plucked from the earth and shoved into my mouth, as if it were delicious. My father would be standing behind me, to tell me to spit it out. It was he who let me chew on his violets and laughed as my face crumpled over their perfumey flavor. He knew exactly which could be ingested and which could not. He seemed to have an endless knowledge of that which was poisonous. He knew all their Latin names. He knew every name of the colors which borrowed their titles from the natural world, having applied each to the walls of our home, and the patched doors of cars.
As a baby, anything of bright color was plucked from the earth and shoved into my mouth, as if it were delicious. My father would be standing behind me, to tell me to spit it out. It was he who let me chew on his violets and laughed as my face crumpled over their perfumey flavor. He knew exactly which could be ingested and which could not. He seemed to have an endless knowledge of that which was poisonous. He knew all their Latin names. He knew every name of the colors which borrowed their titles from the natural world, having applied each to the walls of our home, and the patched doors of cars.
What was something he seemed to know nothing about?
Although I don't consider him effeminate, my father seems to know nothing about the trappings of masculinity that define what I think we both see as brutish. My father has never been in a bar fight. My father has never willingly gone fishing. My father does not hunt. My father ventures to the woods only to cut down our Christmas tree with a hatchet, and to bird-watch. He is a builder, and a carpenter, and a mechanic. He works with his hands, now rough instruments of the task performed, but he grew up playing the piano, and whittling sticks into small figures for his mother. But he did all these things in disregard of being a man. He did them because he's a toy-maker.
What do you wish you'd have asked him?
I guess I wish I'd asked him about what being a girl meant, because I don't think I asked anyone at all, and I'm not the same kind of girl my mother was. What I really wanted to know was what sex and love meant to men as men, so I could know what it meant to me as a woman. I could sense he wanted me to be a certain way, when I was a girl. I could tell that there was something inherent in my gender that made him feel uncomfortable as a father. Some uncharted, unconsidered thing that was sobering to him. Where he was not prepared to have one, he had a girl to raise. I think he wanted me to be the kind of boy he'd planned on, and, barring that, the kind of girl he could understand. But what kind of girl that was, I'll never know. I only know the clothes that she wore.
I guess I wish I'd asked him about what being a girl meant, because I don't think I asked anyone at all, and I'm not the same kind of girl my mother was. What I really wanted to know was what sex and love meant to men as men, so I could know what it meant to me as a woman. I could sense he wanted me to be a certain way, when I was a girl. I could tell that there was something inherent in my gender that made him feel uncomfortable as a father. Some uncharted, unconsidered thing that was sobering to him. Where he was not prepared to have one, he had a girl to raise. I think he wanted me to be the kind of boy he'd planned on, and, barring that, the kind of girl he could understand. But what kind of girl that was, I'll never know. I only know the clothes that she wore.
What do you wish he'd known about you?
I wish he'd known that I... was really his.
I wish he'd known that I... was really his.
How are you most like him?
By being Bruce Lee.
By being Bruce Lee.
What about him do you wish you could see more in other people?
I wish everyone were as romantic as he is. I wish everyone believed in the revolution and wanted to learn about their enemies. I wish more people drove a truck like his because it means something about freedom.
I wish everyone were as romantic as he is. I wish everyone believed in the revolution and wanted to learn about their enemies. I wish more people drove a truck like his because it means something about freedom.
Your last memory of him.
Denim scraping on the bark of a tree, flaking dust into the fabric. Hard palms scraping smooth young branches. He leans down from the height of the tree and smiles, crooked.
Denim scraping on the bark of a tree, flaking dust into the fabric. Hard palms scraping smooth young branches. He leans down from the height of the tree and smiles, crooked.
"You scared?"
Assuming no one ever really dies, what is your relationship with him now?
We talk a lot, not out loud. I can feel when he's close to me. I can feel him in Brad and John, and it feels like home. Now, it feels like keeping an idea alive that he was a harbinger of, but did not embody. It's our job to teach each other and our children what the spirit is that he heeded in himself. The legacy of being a dragon, maybe, which he handed off as a young man's game years ago.
Did he believe in magic? How could you tell that he did or didn't?
Yes, of course, and was for a time a master of it, and did for a time know from where in him it came. But he's the kind of man who looks for that.
What does he smell like?
Assuming no one ever really dies, what is your relationship with him now?
We talk a lot, not out loud. I can feel when he's close to me. I can feel him in Brad and John, and it feels like home. Now, it feels like keeping an idea alive that he was a harbinger of, but did not embody. It's our job to teach each other and our children what the spirit is that he heeded in himself. The legacy of being a dragon, maybe, which he handed off as a young man's game years ago.
Did he believe in magic? How could you tell that he did or didn't?
Yes, of course, and was for a time a master of it, and did for a time know from where in him it came. But he's the kind of man who looks for that.
What does he smell like?
Denim. Lime. Cigarettes. Toothpaste. Wool. Engine oil. The inside of a car.
May 14th, 1966
Dear Evelyn,
It’s funny to think how a little thing like eye color could change everything. Alright, maybe it isn’t so funny.
I hope it doesn’t say anything bad about me, but if things had turned out differently, I wouldn’t be writing this letter. I hoped I would never have to, but you’re a girl now and nearly a woman. I’m doing it knowing full well that Joshua just doesn’t have the stomach. I don’t blame him. I’m only doing it because even though the truth can hurt, you still deserve to know it.
Like I said, I planned to give you this letter when you’re a girl, nearly a woman. My cowardice might make me wait longer, but the reason I’m writing it in a letter is so that it’s at least never too late for you to hear it straight from me, in case something should happen to me before I decide to tell you in person.
I’m going to hide this in the very bottom of the pantry, attached to my Olivetti typewriter, the same colors as your eyes. It’ll be where Joshua can’t reach, but you can. I like to think about you finding it some night when you’re helping him make dinner.
When I was 15, I ran away from home to live in the city. Joshua was 15 too and working for his parents in a musical instrument repair shop. I was heartbroken before I met him, and sometimes people stay heartbroken forever, but God smiled down on me, and I didn’t have to. I knew right away he was the only one for me.
The reason I ran away from home was because my parents wanted to send me away. You were conceived the moment I lost my virginity, and they thought I should be put into a convent. I loved your father very much, but when his parents found out, they moved him across the country, and I would never see him again.
It killed me when your father moved away, and when my parents said they wanted to send me away too, that’s when I ran off to the city. That’s when I met Joshua, the very next day. He could clearly see I was pregnant, but it didn’t stop him from falling in love with me. He said he would always be there, and he would raise you like you were his own. He said he would protect you, teach you, and do the best he could to provide for you. I knew then that nothing could separate us.
My mother almost didn’t let us get married, but Joshua’s father happened to agree with it, and he’s a very persuasive man. Joshua worked for enough money to open up an auto repair shop, I had you, and we made the apartment above the garage a nice place for you to grow up.
When you were a baby, I thought if your eyes turned brown, we’d never have to tell you he wasn’t your father by blood. For weeks after you were born, I watched the storm clouds of your infant eyes clear up to something clear as glass and blue like ice. You had your father’s eyes, and if you were ever wondering why, now you know.
I knew nothing could separate us, but I just realized that if you’re reading this, it means something has. Joshua was the love of my life, but now that I’m gone, he’s going to be the love of yours. I know you’ll take good care of him, as I know he’s taken such good care of you.
All this may come as a surprise or maybe you were clever enough to guess something was off. Whatever the case, as my last piece of advice- Don’t let the surprises of life make you love it any less.
Love always,
Mom
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