Hasta La Gadget!

Photo courtesy of Joel L. A. Peterson

It never occurred to my father how much that simple word always meant to me

Every Father’s Day reminds me of the day my father taught me the meaning of manhood.

I was a sixteen year-old who had been adopted at age seven — a fact about me that would play a crucial role this day; a day when I learned something from my father that I will never forget.

Dad was an accountant and his wife’s rules and household order appealed to him. But this day Mom’s rules — and Dad’s words — would change me forever.

At the breakfast table I reached for the box of Raisin Brand.
“Isn’t that the same shirt that you wore yesterday?” I drew my hand back from the cereal box when my mother uttered those words.
“You need to go back upstairs and change your shirt, young man.”

“But it’s not dirty!” A distinct teenage whining in my voice.

“You know the rules in our house. No son of mine is going to leave this house wearing the same shirt two days in a row.” Mom’s strict rule stated plainly and innocently.

But something about her words seemed to pull a grenade pin inside me, exploding all my adoption-driven insecurities.

“So changing a stupid shirt is what makes me your son?! It’s good to know what makes me fit to be your son! Since I’m NOT your real son, I am not changing my shirt!!”

I didn’t know what had come over me. I screamed these last words at my mother.

no son of mine

There was something about the words “no son of mine” that set off that emotional grenade inside me and spattered the shrapnel of my teenage insecurities along with other inner demons — demons that hide inside most adoptees — and these demons were now screaming things through my mouth at my mother. I was surprised, shocked and enraged at the same time.

For most adoptees there is always a trickle of blood inside one’s soul from a wound that could never fully heal. And there existed too many questions surrounding my identity such that an inferno of insecurities always blazed in my gut.

And in the mirror, my Asian face screamed an accusation every day.
“No son of mine!“

I ran up the stairs and into my room, slamming the door behind me. A few minutes later, there was a knock on my bedroom door. Dad stepped through into my small bedroom and sat down next to me. The bed sunk down noticeably under his weight.

My dad was not a man for elegant words or eloquent phrasing. And though my dad would completely forget this episode and this conversation, I would not.

I would remember every word.

“Son,”
He almost never called me by my name, but nearly always addressed as me as “Son.” It never occurred to my father how much that simple word always meant to me, coming from a man like him. I had never had a man in my life until I was adopted at age seven. My Korean mother had been a destitute sex worker and therefore I had grown up with seeing nothing very positive regarding men or being a man.

Until Dad.

a constant, dependable, working, providing presence of strength and good humor

Dad was a new sort of creature to me. At six-foot two, he was a physical presence, but was never physical. He never seemed to get sick or tired or impatient or demanding. He would drive endless hours along endless miles of highways during summer vacations, enduring endless hours of children squabbling about touching each other and whining for bathrooms. He could execute unending honey-do lists and chores he would never have thought to invent.

He was a constant, dependable, working, providing presence of strength and good humor, perfectly paired with a smart, strong, faith-driven Doris Day of a wife.

Dad cleared his throat.

“Son, I just want to share with you a little something I’ve learned. A man just doesn’t argue with his mother. And your mom is truly your mother in every way that is meaningful.”

Dad paused.

“Son, because being a man is NOT about how loud you can yell or how hurtful you can be or how hard you can hit something or someone. You’re going to learn that the hardest fights that a man will have in his life will be inside himself. With himself. Being a man is about winning against the pettiness of your own ego. It means saying you are wrong, even when you know you are right; it’s saying you are sorry, even though you’re not . . .

Because it just doesn’t matter.

Of course, sometimes it does. And if it does matter, if you truly believe in your heart and soul that the world will be a better place, that the course of history and your corner of mankind will truly be better off, then of course, stand up and be a man.

But if you know in your heart — deep down inside you — that it doesn’t really matter, except to you and your ego, then be a real man. Say you are sorry. Say you are wrong, even though you are not. Because a man should only stand up for things that truly matter.”

a parting of storm clouds

His words were like a parting of storm clouds that suddenly revealed a shaft of light and clarity.

“So. Son, if you truly believe the world will be a better place because you wear that shirt, then by God, wear the shirt. But if you know that it doesn’t matter to the world at all — only to you — then be a man, Son. Be a man and wear something else. Tell your mother that you’re sorry — for what you said and how you acted. And tell her you were wrong.”

Dad stopped talking. His big, bass voice stopped filling up my small bedroom. The silence went on for minutes. He finally stood up.

“Well, I have to get going to work now, Son. I’m late. I know you’ll do the right thing, Son.” With those words, Dad turned and went out my bedroom door.

I knew that my dad was right with a profoundness I’d never felt before. I now saw it so clearly and his words made perfect sense. And I knew that what my mother had really meant was that she wanted me to live up to her high standards because I was her son. I felt so stupid and so ashamed. And so not like a man. I knew what I had to do — be the man that my father was.

As I came down to the kitchen with my book bag over my shoulder, my mother looked up from her cup of coffee.

I was wearing a different shirt.

“Uh . . . hey Mom? I’m really sorry for the things I said . . . and…I was wrong.”

I could visibly see the relief and the release of more tension than she had likely been aware of. And in her eyes, I thought I saw a forgiveness and understanding — and joy.

she wanted to say more

“Thank you, Son. You’d better hurry. You’re already late for school.”

I could sense she wanted to say more, maybe to say how sorry she was about my bleeding soul, to let me know that she understood and loved me and worried for me. But she didn’t need to say anything.

I knew.

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Joel L. A. Peterson is the national award-winning author of the novel, “Dreams of My Mothers” (Huff Publishing Associates, March, 2015).

— 1st Place Winner, 2015 Readers’ Favorite National Book Awards (Gold Award)

“Compelling, candid, exceptionally well written, Dreams of My Mothers is a powerful read that will linger in the mind and memory long after it is finished. Very highly recommended.” — Midwest Book Review

Learn more about the author and his book at Dreamsofmymothers.com and on Facebook

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