So many of the feelings I had about myself weren’t really mine, but feelings I learned to have to try and fit into his world. ~ Scott Berkun, Why Fathers and Children Don't Get Along
Part of the story I make up about myself – and the feelings and judgments surrounding that story – is derived from conscious and unconscious messages I received from my father. I find revisiting and reinterpreting those messages – and making conscious choices about how I want to be in this world – is a lifetime's work. When I read Scott Berkun's post about his new book project on fathers and children, I started another round of revisitation and reinterpretation in a comment there … which grew so long I realized it would be more appropriate to cut, paste and elaborate on it here as a blog post of its own. I'm going to take advantage of this migration and elaboration as a pretext for articulating a pet theory of microevolution that has evolved through my periodic reflections on father-child relationships in my family.
The message from my father that I revisit most often – and find most difficult to reinterpret – is: I am not worth spending time with.
When I trace the source of this message, I remember a period when I was around 9 (+/- 2) years old, when I would often ask my father if he would play ball with me – football, baseball or basketball, depending on the season. His verbal response was invariably "maybe later" (a phrase that can still trigger feelings of anger and resentment) and his subsequent actions invariably communicated "no". The message I unconsciously interpreted in his unwillingness to play ball with me was that I am not worth spending time with (i.e., it's about me, not him). The evasive way that message was communicated left me with the mostly unconscious conviction that people don't want to spend time with me, even if they say they do (or won't say they don't).
I now consciously interpret this message's origin as arising from my father's alcoholism, and on an intellectual level, after years of intermittent involvement in 12-step programs and other forms of counseling, I can see his disengagement as a symptom of that disease. And I can embrace the 3 Cs: I didn't cause it – the alcoholism or his disengagement – and couldn't control it or cure it when he was alive (he died in 1996). I don't believe my father was consciously choosing not to play ball with me, and I don't feel anger now when I think of him, but I sometimes still feel sadness. My feelings about him are tempered by what I know about his relationship with his own father, and the changes he was able to make in his own parenting.
Which brings me to my pet theory of microevolution: 99% of everything we do as parents is unconsciously channeling the behavior of one or both of our parents; 1% of what we do is based on conscious choices to reject negative parenting practices ("I will never do that to my son/daughter!"). I used to think that 1% of what we do is based on conscious choices to adopt positive parenting practices ("I will always to do that for my son/daughter") … but I couldn't think of any positive practices I've consciously chosen to adopt. I believe we intend to consciously adopt or reject much higher percentages of our parents' parenting practices, but I so often find myself unconsciously behaving the same way my father or mother did, that I think the 99% estimate is more realistic.
Like my father, my paternal grandfather was also an alcoholic. Although my grandfather had many good qualities and was always very kind to me, my father told me that when he was growing up, his father was quick to bring out a razor strap to apply corporal punishment in disciplining his children. My father also told me that he swore he would never lay a hand – or razor strap – on his children, and he never did.
My maternal grandfather was not an alcoholic, and also had many good good qualities and was often very kind to me. However he was also very status conscious, and he regularly compared me and my accomplishments to those of my cousins. As I entered adolescence – a period during which my grades and my interest in many of the things he valued declined, while my cousins' academic and athletic accomplishments continued to shine – I was nearly always on the losing end of the comparison. He may have found me to be worth spending time with, but I don't believe he felt much pride about me, or at least not the kind of pride he so often expressed about his other grandsons.
While I'm not always sure I've made good progress in overcoming my own trance of unworthiness – the persistent conviction that "I'm not good enough" – I swore I would not pass the trance on to my children. I made conscious choices about always getting involved in my children's sports activities (as an assistant coach, scorekeeper or other administrative role) and I never – ever (!) – turned down an invitation to play ball. I also assiduously avoided temptations to engage in implicit or explicit comparisons.
Tears are welling up as I type these words … as they do every time I hear Harry Chapin's classic song, Cats in the Cradle:
My son turned ten just the other day.
He said, "Thanks for the ball, dad, come on let's play.
Can you teach me to throw?" I said, "Not today,
I got a lot to do." He said, "That's ok."
And he walked away, but his smile never dimmmed,
Said, "I'm gonna be like him, yeah.
You know I'm gonna be like him."
I often wonder how much I've turned out just like my father. I am not an alcoholic but I do tend to be a workaholic, a characteristic that I share with my father and both grandfathers. My wife has told me she sometimes feels like a "computer widow", due to my repeated prioritization of work over family (prospective future blog topic: husbands, wives and microevolution). I've been concerned that, despite my steadfast intention, and regular engagement in some dimensions of my children's lives, I may have unconsciously communicated a message of unworthiness to my children. I may have been willing to play ball with them, but possibly neglected them in other important ways.
I recently asked my 18-year-old son – and, separately, my 22-year-old daughter – about whether they feel unworthy, or whether they've ever felt that I thought they were not worth spending time with. I was happy that both reported healthy feelings of worthiness and assured me that they never received any unworthiness messages from me … although I realize that self-awareness, and self-reporting (especially to authority figures), can be highly biased.
I also sent them a link to Taming the Mammoth: Why You Should Stop Caring What Other People Think, an essay tracing the evolutionary roots of our pervasive "craving for social approval and admiration, and a paralyzing fear of being disliked" that – as a praise junkie – I found both resonant and inspiring. Both of my children said they enjoyed the essay, but they do not see themselves as being inordinately weighed down by a social survival mammoth.
I don't know what other ills I have inflicted on my children – that will probably require future rounds of revisitation and reinterpretation, by me and them – but I like to believe I've made some microevolutionary improvement over an earlier generation.
As for my own personal evolution, I've been inspired by John Hagel's recent series of posts exploring the insights and impacts of personal narratives, identifying and understanding the dysfunctional forces that may have shaped our early lives, and then consciously crafting new personal narratives that transform those challenges into gifts for ourselves and others. I still feel very much like I'm between stories, which is probably why my blog and Twitter feed have tended to be less active and more professional / technical in nature lately. I am not yet willing to craft a new personal narrative, but I am increasingly open to new visitations and interpretations … and evolution at various scales.
Comments
8 responses to “Fathers, Children, Microevolution and Reinterpretation: A Personal & Generational Narrative”
I’m both sad and happy to say my story is similar to yours. Sad, as it’s unpleasant, but happy to know I’m not alone and that there are even more things to do that I haven’t done yet to sort myself. I’m very glad you wrote this as even if I what I wrote only influenced you in a small way, it helps make the project I’m doing worthwhile.
As you’ve point out so much of how we relate to each other is driven by forces we’re only partially aware of. At best most people only learn about two marriages – their parents and their own, which is a poor sampling of data indeed. There is so much shame in exploring these things and so much resistance among men to talking about feelings and how to get better at both experiencing emotion and expressing it.
I can say, if nothing else, your asking of your children and your self-awareness of the challenge of getting honest answers reflects an introspection and self-awareness I wish my father possessed. It would have saved me more pain and time and effort than I can express.
Thanks for writing and I hope you write more about this.
@Scott: thanks for the [additional] encouragement. The courage and vulnerability that you and John Hagel demonstrated in revealing some of the challenges you’ve faced played a big role in giving me implicit permission to publicly process a fragment of my family of origin issues.
Your observation about not being alone reminds me of another one of the benefits I gleaned from 12-step programs. Even though the specific manifestations of addiction and other harmful behaviors vary across several spectra, there are significant similarities in their effects on loved ones (especially children). As Carl Rogers noted, “what is most personal is most general”.
I look forward to reading more about what you write about fathers and children!
Kia ora Joe,
Thank you for sharing such a brave and honest post, and providing a few interesting resources. I can concur with Scott above that much of my own story is also quite similar. I also said to myself I would be this kind of parent and not do this or that, as my father had done to me. Mostly in terms of physical and mental violence. Particularly that same sort of passive aggressive judgement your grandfather gave to you. For me, that was always more painful and enduring than a smack. I have struggled with my oldest son. To the point I have had to ring the police to have removed from our home. In those moments I could almost feel my own father inhabit my body. I tried to do things with him my own father never did with me, particularly in the mountains, but realize now that was not about him but rather me. We are sort of at a stalemate at present, which just sort of hangs in the air like something not smelling quite right. Lots of stuff to work through. My wife and I have started to create a dialogue that has been honest and helpful, but very hard to strip myself completely down. It is good to know there are other men out with such stories. And that the story of our lives is an ongoing process. It gives me strength. Cheers. And Kia kaha!
Regards,
Robb
@Robb: thanks for sharing your story. I can relate to the hard work of stripping myself down in the process of determining how best to be a constructive father to a son who does not always act or react in ways I would prefer. The stripping down is necessary, in part, because my son knows me so well … a consequence, perhaps, of my desire to be as open and honest as possible with him.
I am glad you are making evolutionary progress with your own parenting. I’m reminded of Stephen Jay Gould’s notion of punctuated equilibrium – periods of relative stasis, punctuated by bursts of rapid change – which is how I would characterize my own experience in parenting … and I would not be surprised if that is how my own parents would characterize their experience.
A wise person once told me that we are not responsible for what happened to us as children, but we are responsible for what we do about it as adults. Thank you for modeling that so perfectly.
@LH: Wise words, indeed. I am fortunate to have friends – like you – who have helped fill some gaps in modeling the kind of father I want to be with my children.
Kia ora Joe,
Happy to write that even in a few short weeks after reading here, and a bit of focus things are much improved between my son and I. Getting both of us to sit still long enough to break down a few walls and really talk was an amazing experience. Accepting his words with being defensive, and he mine, got us to some very worthwhile places. It is a start. When he expressed a desire to come into the mountains with I nearly fell off my chair. A very productive month. Cheers e hoa.
Robb
@Robb: I’m very glad to read that increased focus and decreased defensiveness have reduced some barriers between you and your son. My son will sometimes remind me to “Breathe, Dad” when I start getting worked up during a discussion with him, which – when I’m not in a state of high defensiveness – helps refocus the interaction. I hope you enjoy your journey into the mountains with him. FWIW, I just finished my 5th reading of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, and Robert Pirsig’s relationship with his son, Chris – in the context of navigating metaphorical and physical mountains – will be the subject of a future blog post.