JUNE 2014 (Pride Month!)

15

Today is Father’s Day and I’ve been thinking about my own Dad. June 7th was the fourth anniversary of his death in 2010 at the age of 88. We had a very mixed relationship since he wasn’t crazy about my being gay even though I think he suspected it all along. By the time he asked my brother, Billy, about it, he was not surprised by the affirmation. When I found out about their chat, I was panicked, fearing the absolute worst as Dad had made many extremely homophobic comments over the years.  When I confronted him about it, crying, he just told me that he loved me and just asked two things: 1) don’t tell your mother; and 2) don’t bring any “friends” home. All in all, I was relieved. When I told my mother a year later, I found the two of them in tears concerned that I had “chosen” such a difficult life. Ten years later when he changed his will to give more money to my brother, I was certain that it was because I was gay and I felt terribly hurt. He strongly denied that was the reason and said that he only wanted to make sure that Billy would have enough for his family but I still felt hurt.  Of course, my brother, being the fair man that he is, split everything right down the middle.  Years later, a friend of mind said to me that maybe it had nothing to do with my being gay but rather from a sincere concern that Billy might need a little extra for the kids’ college expenses and other responsibilities from which I was free.  All of a sudden, it made sense. My father was a very fair person, he never lied, and he did love me.  Over the years he had had bailed me out of many a rough financial period during which Billy’s life was generally stable.  I also suppose there was a possibility that he figured I would be successful at some point. He never let me pay for a flight or a car rental when I came back to visit and he made sure that I had some extra spending money. He was extremely proud of me when I graduated from law school. For that matter, he was extremely proud of me when I graduated from college since I was the first Davis to do so.

During those times when I came back to visit, I would have a few beers with Dad and we would talk about a million things. My father was very well read and curious about life in general.  There were many pleasant conversations over those beers. My mother used to tell me a story about when I got very ill shortly after my birth. She said that my father would get on his knees in the hospital chapel and beg god not to take his little boy. I still tear up when I think about that. Later on, the first time I saw him cry was when I was put into a psychiatric hospital when I was seventeen. I initially thought that he was embarrassed of me.  But that was not the case at all.  Many years later, I learned that his father, my grandfather and namesake, had committed suicide when my Dad was fourteen years old.  My mother had never said a word about this. All of a sudden I understood why my father had such an angry side. And who wouldn’t? Back then, in December of 1935, the catholic church would not bury someone who committed suicide and of course, the whole town knew of the incident. This explained why he used to say that it was not important to be a catholic, only a christian. Hence, my father felt responsible for my illness, not embarrassed by it. When Billy and I were kids, Dad would often yell very loudly when he was angry which frightened us. Now it all made sense. A fourteen year-old boy of his generation had no outlet to deal with the untimely death of his father. I only wish I had known earlier so I could have been more sympathetic. Given the circumstances, my father handled his pain quite well.

When my mother died, Dad was inconsolable. He could not stop crying for weeks. They had been best friends as well as husband and wife. I had no idea what to do or say as Billy and I were also devastated. But Dad managed to continue with his life for another eighteen years even after he lost most of his eyesight from macular degeneration. Apart from the loss of my mother, his biggest disappointment was that he could no longer read but he switched to books on tape. He still kept up with news and current evens and bemoaned the fact that he missed out on the advances of the computer. He rarely complained, adapting calmly to the various pitfalls of aging. He even ventured into Boston each week on the train by himself carrying a white cane to alert others that his sight was impaired. He volunteered for a meals-on-wheels organization in his town for many years and maintained his independence until he had a bad fall at the very end of 2009. Shortly thereafter, he went into a nursing home for the last four months of his life. When I went up to Boston to visit him for the last time in March of 2010, he was absolutely overjoyed to see me. For years I had been concerned that he might say some nasty things if senility began to set in. I was very wrong.  He only saw his firstborn son whom he loved very much. I got to have a lovely final memory of him. I didn’t give him enough credit but Dad was always just Dad. His family was always first and he never wavered. When he was alive, I felt a sense of security because I knew if I ever needed anything, he was there. Life is a little bit scarier now but I have a strength of character that he gave me.  Happy Father’s Day, Dad!