No place like home for the holidays

My biggest fear is twofold.

I’m afraid that one day, I’ll grow up to be just like my father.

And I’m scared to death that I’ll never be anything like him.

Chances are, in 40 years, I’ll look in the mirror and see him. I’ll open my mouth and hear him. My thoughts will become more and more similar to his.

But right now, that day seems rather distant. We barely understand each other.

Frequently, our conversations are clouded by miscommunication. We hardly seem able to speak. Most often, our words collide. He says one thing, and I hear another. I respond, confusing the situation even more.

It’s all rather frustrating.

This Thanksgiving, we weathered another relational storm. And though it’s tempting to wallow in self-pity, making myself out to be some sort of holiday martyr, I know that’s not true.

I hurt him. He hurt me. But we’re not the only family to experience friction. In fact, I have a feeling that my holiday experience might resemble yours.

A friend of mine texted me on turkey day, reporting that Thanksgiving could officially begin because his mom had “spiked the cider.”

With the way families tend to behave during the holidays, her preventative measure is almost reasonable; family gatherings often serve as new platforms for old problems.

That’s what happened with me and my dad. Simmering tensions erupted. Sound familiar?

The National Center for Fathering reports that more than 55 percent of Americans admit to having “unresolved problems” with their fathers.

While it’s enticing to believe that those conflicts might resolve themselves, I question if time really heals all wounds.

I’m thinking it takes some effort too. And that’s difficult.

I’m also beginning to think that our relationships with our fathers determine a lot about who we are. Freud certainly thought so. And a lot of smart people since have agreed.

I might go so far as to say that our relationships with our fathers is the most important relationship we’ll ever have. If he loves us well, we’ll feel secure. But if he loves us poorly, we’ll search for his attention somewhere else, finding it where we can.

I’m starting to believe that no matter how hard we try, we can’t escape our father’s influence.

I know I can’t.

When I work tirelessly without interruption, he’s there. (Dad’s the hardest worker I know.)  

And when I wash my roommate’s dishes, I feel like him. (He’s rather selfless, too.)

In fact, my dad has served as the caregiver to my maternal grandfather, who’s come to live at our house in his old age. Though Dad’s work is thankless and unending, he performs it dutifully. My strong sense of personal responsibility comes from him.

Home isn’t always easy. Sometimes, home sucks. But these next three weeks, I want to consciously prepare for my return. Dad will still be there. And though he can be one tough man to love, I do.


E-mail: tycherne@indiana.edu