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Son of the Man

Sam Ambler

We were admonished from the pulpit to love our mothers and our fathers,
and growing up, I tried, I really did, but he made it so damn hard! The way
he spoke down to me, the way he hit me, the way he berated me verbally
over and again. I never wanted to kiss him goodnight or hug him for any
reason. The way he insinuated I know you. He knew nothing about me.
The way he smacked his lips when he ate, mouth open, I could barely
tolerate his presence through an entire meal. The way he drank his Apple Jack
wine and slurred his words and then slunk into the overstuffed wingback
chair in the family room in front of that old TV, sleeping it off; the way he
whiled away hours into oblivion. It made me hide his bottles from him in
secret niches around the house, some of them probably still there, sixty years
and two owners later. I’ll never forget the way he kicked the neighbor’s dog
when he thought no one was watching; the way he drove haphazardly, scarcely
aware of other drivers on the road; the way he snorted when he snored; the way
he let grime build up on his glasses without cleaning them; the way he made me
feel like I was less than nothing. It doesn’t do me much good to remember these
things—I don’t want to dwell on them or in them, but it is useful to know what I
have let go of, what rot I have overcome, what I have survived and surpassed.
I did not turn into anyone even resembling my father, and that is such a relief!

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