A better dad, or just different?
Are we better because of our own dad's shortfalls, or just different people, in a different time, with different tools?
I saw the blood rise up in my father’s face.
A road rage flair up had us pulled to the side of the busy street, the other driver rushing towards our car.
Who knows what led to it. They’re all the same on paper.
What I do remember was feeling terrified.
The other driver was the kind you hope not to see get out of the car and lunge towards yours.
Bigger, angrier, and showing zero restraint.
I was about ten and hated conflict then as much as I do now.
Maybe it’s a flaw. I do admire those who never back down from a fight. But, I’ve made my peacekeeper instincts work for me. We use what we’re given.
In this situation, though, all I knew was the fear I felt.
This random thick-limbed hothead was about to beat my dad’s face into the Florida pavement.
I’m sure that was the plan until he looked in the car and saw me sitting in the passenger’s seat.
My dad was always up for the fight.
He’s was never a tough guy, but when anger took over, he was all in.
That’s how he was taught growing up in Lowell, with no dad of his own around.
He was being bullied, and one day after school his mother told him to go visit the toughest kid in the neighborhood.
No explanation. She had asked for his help.
The neighborhood tough instructed my dad that the next time he saw that bully to walk up and punch him in the face. No words. Just swing.
“Otherwise, I’m gonna be your new bully.”
He did. And it worked.
From then on, punching first was the rule.
So, fearing the inevitable roadside brawl, I did what a scared, conflict avoidant 10-yr-old does; I pleaded.
“Dad, just go! It’s not worth it. Please!”
The big guy heard this and took the cheapest shot.
“Yeah, listen to your kid. Just go before you regret it, asshole.”
At that moment, I wanted to kick his ass as much as dad did.
I saw all the rage my dad was struggling to contain double. The veins in his temple bulging.
I said softly, “Please Dad. Let’s just go.”
To my shock, he did.
He swore something at the guy about being lucky his kid was with him, and drove on.
We sat in silence for the rest of the ride.
It still bothers him.
It came up recently during one of our visits.
He’s at the end of his ride now. Longterm affects of Parkinson’s Disease. A cruel slide down.
Funny thing is, he’s still pissed about it. Recalling the moment recently, forty-five years later, even in his wobbly state, the rage rose back up in his face.
“'Listen to your kid,” he mocked. “Oooh I’d love a shot at that fuckin’ guy.”
—
Last week I was driving home form the gym with my 22-yr-old son. The light changed to green. The car in front of me, blinker flashing, sat still.
I gave the driver the 3-second courtesy of looking up from their phone and moving their ass.
Nothing.
Beep, beep.
Still nothing.
The driver’s door swung open and a frazzled looking woman stomped towards me in a fit.
“I’m stuck you fucking asshole! Can’t you see my hazzards. Fuck! GO AROUND!”
I felt the spike, but caught it.
I started to pull around, then stopped. Put my car in park and walked to her door.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I said, using my best late-night DJ voice (as taught by Chris Voss, the former hostage negotiator in his book, Never Split The Difference.) “I only saw the one flasher. Are you okay?”
“I’m sorry, too,” she said, letting out a long, frustrated sigh. “I’ve been stuck here twenty minutes with people honking at me.”
“Do you have help coming,” I asked.
“Yes, they said they’re on the way.” Then described how the car is running, but just “does nothing” when she puts it in drive.
She assured me she’d be fine, and I apologized again.
“I get it,” she said. “This is just my life today.”
I signaled to the other drivers about to honk to go around, then got in my car and did the same.
My son didn’t say a word.
I turned up the radio and sang along.
In this episode, Joe and I recall the moments of impact our fathers had on us, good and bad, and how those have made us, if not better dads, eager to try.
As always, we’d love to hear your stories of son and dad-dom, what you’ve learned and how you’ve tried.
See you there,
Kevin
You were lucky. That, "baby", could easily have escalated things. Lol!
I'm glad human kindness was what the lady received.