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How I’ve Evolved Because of the Love of My Father

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He believed that girls should get dirty, pay their own way, and love to read. And he believed in me.

the evolution of loveThey say the most important relationship a woman has is with her father. I’m not sure who “they” are but I can’t say they’re wrong. My father and I have a very strange and dynamic relationship with an enormous undercurrent of love. I am a true reflection of his spirit, and it doesn’t surprise me that we often get into minor grumbles. I’m just, if not more, feisty than he is.

Relationships aren’t built in a vacuum, and to understand my childhood in a historical context I first have to understand his. Dick Stone, my grandfather, was broken after the war. A victim of PTSD in the 1950s when psychology was for “the really messed up folk,” Dick was barely able to make it through the day.  He got and lost jobs like other people go grocery shopping.

Dick’s childhood journey was a mess too. His mother died before he hit puberty, his father remarried and then shipped him to live with his aunt. Dick wasn’t wanted at home, and then was brutally battered to his emotional core after his tour during WWII. His sensitive soul didn’t stand a chance.

I often thought my father raised me as a tom-boy because he had hoped for a boy, but I later realized it was because he didn’t understand in any great divide between the genders.

My father never mentions this disturbance. He keeps it to himself. I’ve picked up the pieces in stories told by my family and by hitting the archives. He loved his father fiercely, even though in the 42 years they inhabited the earth together, Dick never told my father once, out loud, that he loved him.  My father made a vow that we’d hear those words every day. A stoic, strict, religious banker, my father has a teddy bear of a heart and never fails to say, “I love you” when we get off the phone. And the way he says it is adorable. It’s uncomfortable and foreign, but he says it anyway. He wants to make sure we understand it’s real.

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As an anthropology major, I love the great nature versus nurture debate. Its theories are examined in our dissertations, not to show the separateness of the two concepts, but to give light to the fact that they cannot live apart. I know I am the woman today because of my father’s tutelage.  My dad was raised by Jean, a “single” mother who raised four children, kept food on the table and didn’t take noise from anyone. Jean was a tough old broad, a class act, a school teacher, a disciplinarian and didn’t care about your excuses: you behaved, you were kind, and you were of sound moral character.

My father is who he is because of Jean. She shaped his viewpoint of women. I often thought my father raised me as a tom-boy because he had hoped for a boy, but I later realized it was because he didn’t understand in any great divide between the genders. He taught me how to change the tire, check the oil, write a hand-written thank you note, and treat others with respect. He told me everything I need to know about a person is discovered by how they treat the clerk when buying popcorn at the movies. He was right.

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My father and I played catch in the backyard, made tree forts and went to the teddy bear picnic at the library. He took me to the library every Sunday from the time that I was three years old.  I’m an avid bookworm because his passion wore off on me. He bought me a swing set and encouraged me to go out to play, get dirty, take chances, show up, and have fun. Dad taught me that life was limitless and I could do anything I set my mind to. The conversation about how I should be because I was a woman never came up once. His mother was our bad ass family matriarch (my use of profanity has her rolling over in her grave) and showed him from an early age that character is built slowly over time and is never gender specific.

Dad taught me that life was limitless and I could do anything I set my mind to. The conversation about how I should be because I was a woman never came up once.

My favorite story of Dad that you’ll often find me repeating is the tale of money.  In seventh grade I lost my social studies book. At the time it cost a whopping $32, which wasn’t cheap it in 1991. My dad looked at me and laughed to himself. “Ok Jackie, you need $32?  Meet me in the front yard tomorrow morning and we’ll get your money.”  Angrily woken at the crack of dawn, I met Rick in the front yard smugly holding a shovel and a bag of top soil. “What’s this?” I asked.  At the time I believe minimum wage was $4.25. My father gleefully pronounced that I would be receiving that hourly rate for the next eight hours to pay for my book. And so the value of hard work was instilled, and the understanding of a dollar was gained. A lesson I will gleefully bestow upon my children someday.

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Dad didn’t have it easy. His first wife was a drunk and he had two little kids to try to raise on his own before she started her vicious lies and stole us away. He would take me clothes shopping which was absolutely hysterical. Me, six years old, and my color blind father in a department store. We were quite the pair. My outfits in grade school were epic, and for some reason all the evil comments never bothered me in the least. I’m so grateful for the eight years I got to hang out with him, and it devastates me that my brother didn’t enjoy the same experience. He was ripped away at two and I know much of his mental makeup has been gravely affected by the years of neglect and abuse in a drunk, chaotic, single-mother home.

We’ll probably fight tomorrow about this article because I didn’t punctuate something correctly, but that’s OK.  ‘Cause I know you just want me to be my best self.

We’ve had our times of great discord. For three years we didn’t talk to each other in the greatest standoff of all time. We finally put the guns down and made peace but it didn’t come easy. We are fierce, competitive, ambitious, hard-working, but deep down probably the two most sensitive souls you’ll ever meet. You hurt our heart and we immediately cut you off.

Dad, thank you so much for being mine. I still have all the letters you’ve written me over the years in a box that I take out from time to time. Your love of the letter is phenomenal and I wonder one day if you’ll create an anthology of your notes. I’d love to keep them. They are poetic, raw, moving, and captivating.  They let the other person know immediately that they are cherished. And they mean so much to me, because you taught me how to write them back. It’s been delightful to discover in my thirty-fifth year that I am a writer and that everything I know I learned from you.

You are not perfect. Wow, I’m not even close. We’ll probably fight tomorrow about this article because I didn’t punctuate something correctly, but that’s OK.  ‘Cause I know you just want me to be my best self. Just like Jean pushed you. And I think I’ve turned out OK. I love you more than I could ever put into words.

 

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