Bears

I feel a bit lately like I am coming around full circle.

The very first thing I "wrote" in this life I actually dictated to my mother because I couldn't write yet. It took me a while to learn the whole actual writing thing. Letters are too unpredictable, too illogical, I preferred phonics. I often felt betrayed by the language I had already grown to love.

The first thing I wrote was titled "I like bubblegum, my Dad likes watches". It was my attempt at the time to reconcile the already quite stormy relationship I had with my Dad. On the one hand I looked up to him.

He knew the stars, and built things (buildings, canoes, hot air balloons, tepees). He could snap his fingers, he could play the guitar, he could drive a car, he could tell the time, he could put me in check mate in two moves, and (wonder of all the wonders) he could whistle like no one else I'd ever heard (or have ever heard since).

On the other hand, he was a grouch. He didn't like to have fun. He didn't seem amazed at the things he could do at all. And what's more, he didn't seem amazed at the things I was learning to do. He didn't seem amazed with me. He was, in fact, downright angered by most of the things I did.

In the door he would come; I would be waiting there. A big hug ready just for him, a big smile on my cherubic little face. But he was angry.

I didn't understand my father's rage then, and I don't understand it now. But I tried to. I tried to be logical. I tried to figure out all the things I must be doing so wrong to incur his wrath. To anyone who doesn't think kids think through things more than many adults do: fuck you.

He's made plenty of excuses, and I've added several of my own, but I don't think either of us understands.

Yes, I wrote about he must be like the bear. He must not be really angry, he just wants something that I (as a bee) am clearly withholding from him. He just needs to eat. And of course I, as the bee, cannot help but get angry when he comes along demanding whatever it is he needs.

But the small offering ends in a sort of draw. A sort of, we both have our faults so let's compromise. An offer I don't remember ever getting in return.

No doubt I pulled the metaphor from Winnie the Pooh, or Yogi Bear. I learned to write through imitation, and yet was always credited with great imagination.

In life we don't choose how we are perceived. We can only try to understand and then move on. This is a lesson I am finally learning, all these years later.