I was thinking the other day (perhaps in connection with the start of school) how difficult it was for my family to do certain kinds of things together. Sitting down to eat was relatively easy for us in a set sort of way, with established times and order of precedence. Car travel was another easy one. They sat up front where Dad drove and they both spewed Pall Mall smoke to resemble a Pittsburgh mill while I scrunched low in my seat where I was out of sight (and hopefully mind) in better air where I could daydream of something more pleasant and interesting than avoiding cigarette air pollution. A favored car fantasy (perhaps inspired by swaying motion) was reclining in perfect ease on a bed in soft pillowed comfort where servants gladly devoted themselves to my every whim and need. Escapism was easier and at the time quite likely better for all involved than attempts at conversation, which invariably led to talk of some transgression or diligence or morality committed by this writer, or the current extravagance of spending that was enraging my “penurious” parent of male gender. Imagining a life of being adored while fed peeled grapes and choice chocolates was far more desirable thought than the actuality of engaging parents in talk.

 My suspicion, now that it’s far too late to matter much, is that my parents tried too damn hard to be good parents and in the process missed some of the fun side. The impression they gave was of being responsible for a child who required too much and cost more than whatever satisfaction or entertainment the child might provide. Children meant work and expense. The question hung forever open and never fully answered: “Don’t you appreciate nice clothes, fine shoes, a warm home, and good meals?” I did appreciate those things, but in honesty I’d have been OK going barefoot and mildly hungry if we only had more fun together. But to be honest, I didn’t have a clue how we’d ever have done that with so little basis in humanity between us. In my time, parents were one order of being while children were another and lesser species. We did not have much idea for how to meet in the middle. Some families made the attempt through sports or other shared interest, but most seemed to get caught in realms separated by chasms wide as the
Pacific, where parents assumed overindulgence proved love or where children defended a shore where they were rulers divine.

I never quite mastered (and he was no better) having fun with Dad. Put us in a boat together to enjoy ourselves and there was constant dissatisfaction with whoever was running the motor too slow or too fast, use of the “wrong” bait, making noise, or any of the other things that blocked our having a good time. Some beer might have helped, you say. Not by much, I say, because after you pass a point easily reached, two unhappy drunk persons are no improvement over the same two dysfunctionally sober.

Is it correct to say my family was not alone mismatching and dropping connections? No matter how hard one tries, there will be failures to gain in meeting because the participants aren’t ready for it or their overall culture and belief framework gets in the way. I should think it highly difficult to really respect women in a culture where they have to walk behind. He walking in front may say this is done out of respect for women, but the smallest of children see through that phoney baloney. It is not a form of respect to cast other people into permanent roles of limited status. I don’t respect as legitimate or valid or commendable those who do so, and I do that with equal rejection of the supposed goodly motives of some supreme being that just happened to set things up honky dory favoring chauvinist idiots who do far less than those they lord over. Belief and attitude trap us as surely as a Victor leg hold.

My family lived through the restraints of time, place, and culture, but I think none of us was truly happy about it and would have preferred a larger and more human environment. Expanding humanity is not achieved by imposing sectarian limits on anyone. People and cultures with that habit suffer the most from it. If a person’s being is tied up wearing a costume and doing the holy two-step every four hours, I pity them and theirs for losing so much time and energy for so little purpose. I suspect it is frustrating enough to live that way; it might cause heads to be cut off. For me, I fail to see a greater or grander design in imposing strict limits on dress and observance. If the Almighty were a fashion designer, then form of dress might matter considerably. But as a moral or ethical guide, what one wears counts as nearly meaningless. A crook in a thousand-dollar suit is no less a criminal.

I wish my father and I had more talks (not arguments) about political points. His “lock them up and throw away the key” approach was an answer but not a solution. But Dad did like to think in grand absolutes and could not be much swayed. I didn’t know how to shift him. Perhaps I could not have done so, but I’ve come to what I hope are better grounds. People can and will believe anything they want. If your faith tells you to accept God as a six-foot yellow lizard that poops enriched uranium and pees ethyl, then fine. Believe that and go happily through your rituals wearing tall-peaked cones. If that’s what matters, I think “poor you,” but go ahead, it’s your life. On the other hand, soon as anyone drags that or its kin into public, I have every right to laugh at or challenge what is behind the outward signs and what is in no way innocent in its intent or result.