My mother warned me to avoid men like my father; I finally understand why
As a child, I always had a ready-made hero for my Show and Tells and career days: my dad. Tall, handsome, and a respected firefighter for the city of Detroit, I was convinced that my dad was the coolest around. We did everything together; book reports and science fair projects, Saturday afternoon roller-skating, and trips to the Upper Peninsula to camp and fish. He was my rollercoaster buddy, my parent chaperone for my first out of town trip to Chicago, and the guy who made the perfect chocolate cake for every birthday. While a lot of kids wondered whether or not their parents had a favorite child, everyone knew that I had a favorite parent.
But at the age of 11, I discovered that my hero was battling a drug addiction and he checked himself into rehab. I think it was then that I truly began to see my mother in a new light. No longer was she the fussy woman who made me double check my homework or rewash the dishes. In a blink, she had transformed from the parent I avoided, to the one I confided in most. Over time, my father’s sudden lack of emotional awareness when things got hard for our family (financial difficulties, death, depression) became a yellow flag I noticed in men as I began to date, and a red one once I began to date seriously.
Reflecting on those tough years, I realize that while my mother had a penchant for making me face the truths I really didn’t want to hear, she also had the sage gift of providing me with the advice that would carry me to healing and self-awareness.
These past few months, her lessons have become even more of a comfort as I dealt with my latest heartbreak — one that came a mere six days before Valentine’s Day. When my latest guy, Theo, dumped me with a dismissive, “I like spending time with you, but think we should stop seeing each other,” I definitely felt more foolish than wise. Dating throughout this pandemonium (pandemic) has not been easy. The ups and downs of the process have been nothing short of maddening, as I find myself diving into the deepest parts of my insecurities. Self-care has become priceless, as I explore new versions of happiness through therapy, classic Disney movies, and of course, a circle of girlfriends who encouragingly remind me that I hold value, whether single or paired up.
As I worked to come back to myself, I also created a weekly standing appointment with my mom, of all people; a budding relationship that I have come to accept with both an incredulous and understated appreciation. The tumultuous relationship with my mom started to shift when she lost her own mother, my Nana, to a combination of COVID-19 and a body already frail from heart disease and dementia. My mom, having been appointed her legal guardian, was balancing her job as a college admissions director, her role as a wife and mom (and dog-mom!), while also trying to find herself again in the face of tremendous loss. Still, as my mother fought to hold onto both her life and my Nana’s, I knew for a fact that neither of them were okay. I also knew that something else was not right: my mother’s relationship with my father.
Whenever I’d visit, my mom would meet me at the door with Beyoncé, our cocker poodle, who we adopted when I was in the 8th grade. As a teacher, Monday evenings off are a rare feat for me, so Mondays with my mom always called for a victorious glass of wine. But what I also noticed with every visit was, despite being off from work, my father was never home. While I often joked that he was a stereotypical Scorpio with all his secrets, I knew that he was also a creature of habit; usually in our basement, tinkering with his model airplanes or watching the latest heist movie. Still, I was beginning to realize that I had no idea who my father was these days, and it appeared my mother didn’t either.
When I pressed my mom about this, she gave a small smile and said, “Your father has his life and I have mine. We do our own things and enjoy our own time.” As a hopeless romantic, that’s definitely not what you want to hear about the status of what was your first real example of a relationship — a twenty-five-year investment seemingly heading down the tube. Surprisingly enough, of all the things that my mother could be sad about, my father’s emotional detachment wasn’t one of them. “Your father is a solitary man. He likes to keep his own company, especially when he has down time. I’m not like that, so I let him be.” Taking a sip of her own wine, she also added, “Your father doesn’t handle emotions well. I’m glad we raised you to deal with your own truths.” And it’s true; they did.
My mother and I often talked about dating people who were honest about their feelings, while being transparent and consistent with their actions. Perhaps most importantly, she emphasized choosing a partner who would be able to give and follow through with a sincere apology. It’s funny that while these were traits she made sure to instil in me, I sometimes found myself attracted to men like my father: handsome, intelligent, seemingly great on paper, all while avoiding all the serious work of any emotional engagement.
Like many men, my father took pride in being able to “handle” things with money and gifts, and when all else failed, platitudes. When those failed, which they often did, gifts were replaced with anger, indignation, and sadly, a lack of empathy or self-awareness. This dynamic often mirrored itself in my relationships, as quick accusations and manipulative conversations often led to me apologizing for almost every interaction; a pattern highlighted during my short time with Theo. When I told my mother this, she shook her head and remarked, “Still not avoiding your father, I see.”
It seems that while I was careful to avoid these major flags with my father, I was still running into the stop signs. Why was I still allured by men who desired my “just-so” but were never able to provide my “just-so” in return. Selfish partners often led to me sacrificing aspects of myself to keep a man happy. This was certainly the case for my mother, who, when my father turned to drugs, admitted through tears that she felt like she was living two different lives: one of chaos with my father, and one of peace and control without him. Such was the wonder of her parenting that my younger brother and I never witnessed this turmoil. My mother not only managed to keep our household afloat, but she did so while obtaining her MBA. When I asked my mother why she didn’t leave my dad permanently (they separated for a while in junior high school), she replied, “I love your father. I need to see it through.” Though such a declaration may seem sweet, it was the complete opposite from the feminist who often stated that marriage was about partnership, not projects.
On one memorable Monday catch-up, my mother, again through tears, expressed, “I’m so glad you’re on your journey to loving yourself, Kai. You are a beautiful, educated woman. You deserve to be able to communicate your emotions — all of them — out loud and have them heard, and met with action, in return.” Joining her, my eyes welled up because I knew that when she said this, she was also speaking to herself. Still, if there’s anything that can counteract the demons of my father, it’s the warnings of the woman who loves him — and me.