Speaking with a friend of mine the other day, the subject of fatherhood came up. I’m not sure why, but what started out as a light-hearted conversation soon became darker and more significant. My friend observed that his father was the anti-role model, somebody whom he would never imitate; a warning against sins of the flesh and the negation of responsibility. My own father, on the other hand, was a role model that I only appreciated in retrospect. Dad always seemed rather distant to me, yet he provided me and my siblings with experiences and life lessons that have proven invaluable. It wasn’t until the months before Dad died that we finally communicated as two humans who loved each other. As much as I hated the pain that his cancer caused him, I am grateful that we got that chance at the end.
As a teacher, I dispense advice to students on an almost daily basis. Not only advice on how to study and what courses to take, but also questions about careers and where to go next with their lives. The image of a sage old coot passing on hard-earned wisdom to new generations comes to mind. They may or may not take my advice, but I am happy to pass it out gratis. What they do with it is their business. They are not my children.
So why is it so hard for me to speak as plainly with my own son? Am I afraid that he won’t listen, he will fail, and it will reflect poorly on me as a father? I remember when I found out that I was going to have a son. I was awed by the fact, and terrified at the same time. Twenty-five years later, I am still both awed and terrified. And I wonder, is this how Dad felt about me? When I remember the many stupid things that I have done over the years (and Dad didn’t know the half of it), did he fear that his eldest son was a screw-up? I can’t say I would blame him if he did. Maybe it was only his relief that I ended up in a good marriage, with a good life, that allowed the two of us to finally talk.
The world my children live in is, in most ways, completely alien to me. I grew up with some certainties. The USSR was bad, the USA was good (but I still didn’t want to die in Viet Nam). Change came slowly enough that I could keep up with things. If I updated my inner clock every ten years, it was sufficient. Now change comes so quickly that recalibration is required yearly, or even more often. I am selfishly glad that my career did not intersect for the most part with AI or Trumpian post-fact brainlessness. I can only hope that I have done a good enough job as a father, that I have taught my son the right lessons to guide him through stormy seas to a safe harbor, a good life, and a happy ending.