My dad sings barbershop, a kind of acapella using four-part harmony, and has been involved with that community for as long as I can remember. A choir boy in high school, he has always loved music and I believe that if he had completed college, that would have been his area of study.
Although we went camping often as a family, I especially remember camping with SPEBSQSA (Society for the Preservation and Encouragement of Barber Shop Quartet Singing in America) or as my dad affectionately called it, speb-squah. These camping trips happened annually; barbershoppers and their families would gather at a campground and for a weekend there would be performances in the amphitheater, relay races for the kids and men gathering in foursomes among the trees and tents to sing songs quintessential to that world.
On one of these camping trips, I remember being especially clumsy. As the tents and stove were being set up, little Isabel was exploring the site. Pretending to walk a tightrope I paced back and forth on top of a large log. I must have become overconfident and pivoted too quickly because I fell right between that log and another one that ran parallel alongside it. Little did I know, there was a nice bush of stinging nettle waiting to cushion my fall. Stinging nettle = 1, Isabel = 0.
I have always been terrified to use porta-potties. Something about doing my business into a dark hole with no end in sight, it freaks me out. My childlike imagination tells me that some creature is lurking there, waiting to grab me by the butt and drag me down into its endlessness. While camping, I was able to convince my older sister and her friend to go with me, in order to protect me from the toilet goblin. Although they consented to walk me to the outhouse, they didn't slow their pace and my little legs could not keep up. I took off running along the gravel path and fell into a pothole, scraping layers of skin off both of my knees. I remember my dad cleaning these gouges in my knees with antiseptic spray and bandaging them, successfully making me look like a bad ass. I was convinced I was a survivor and was not hesitant to share the story of my brush with death with many of the older campers. My dad called me his little trooper and I remember walking with him around the entirety of the campground, visiting his friends and their families. I felt like a celebrity; everyone wanted to tell me how brave I was and I was sure that my resilience had made my dad very proud.
Throughout my life I have made note of every time my dad has told me he's proud of me. After he and my mom divorced, my relationship with him drastically changed. I distrusted and feared him. We would fight, yell and scream but he would always win. I became primarily concerned with the safety and happiness of my younger siblings, letting my relationship with him dissolve. I have spent most of my life trying to navigate life without a father. There has been so much pain, so many deep wounds that I continue to heal from. We don't speak often and when we do I am unsure of what to say. I don't feel that he knows me and I don't think he will ever let me really know him. I coped with this; I convinced myself I didn't need a dad, poured my love into a relationship with my mom and consoled myself with a notion that the relationship I
did have with my father was a special one. After all, I was his little trooper.
While he and my mom were married, he came to my soccer games and I still to this day am convinced his clapping could cause an avalanche. He coached one of my teams for a while and that remains as a time in my life when he was the most involved. Only very recently have I realized I was not in fact the son he never had. Our bond had never been anything that he didn't have with my two sisters.
I don't remember exactly how long ago, but we had met for dinner (something we do a few times a year) and I was determined to express clearly to him what I wanted and needed from a relationship with him. It was during this dinner that I reminded him of my tomboy days and how much I had missed tossing a ball back and forth or beating him at video games. I was disappointed to learn that he had never known that I felt that way. He didn't recognize that dynamic and thereby implied that it never existed. In that moment, I didn't recognize myself in his image. What was I, if not his little trooper? What did his leaving us mean, if he had never really been there at all?
I was twelve when Greg came into our lives. I still remember making a sign with my sister that said "No Gregs allowed!" to post to our bedroom door. It didn't hang for very long of course, my mom had us take it down. I didn't want a father, if it was not my own. It's a big decision for a twelve year-old to make, that they don't need a father. To this day I'm not sure if it's simply my stubbornness or just that I've grown used to my circumstances, but I have remained faithful to that decision.
My relationship with Greg has been a tumultuous one; there were times that I felt certain he would never love me. We fought often and a few times it went farther than it ever should have. In many ways, I felt that my mom had chosen him over me, my sisters and our family.
We had made a new family, after my dad had left. We moved into the house my parents had recently bought, without him. We would all find our way into my mom's bed where we would hold each other and say aloud how strong we were, hoping that eventually it would resonate with one or all of us. We were my newly adopted brother's protectors and our German Shepherd, Oliver, was ours. We were small, but mighty.
We had grown to respect each other, Greg and I. It has always been most important to me that he be a father to my brothers, who without him, would not have one. I will always be grateful for this. He would fix things around the house or buy something on sale because he knew I would like it; this was how I came to know he loved me. It is unlike any other relationship I have and I believe has taught me a lot.
I didn't realize before losing it, how much I had invested in the relationship---in him. He wasn't perfect or even the ideal father figure. But he was my second chance. He loves me in a quiet way, but it is more tangible than the way my dad has or will ever love me. Now, it will never be the same. I will never again be any man's trooper or surrogate son. I feel damaged, almost broken.
Is it my fate then, to be abandoned and betrayed?
When he is about to hang up the phone, my dad says "Bye for now!", as if to say goodbye is only temporary and that we'll talk again soon.
I hope that one day I will believe him.
