volume 8
The Spectrum
by Annie Passanisi
The Warrior
The veins in his neck don't even recede anymore. They wait in their new home silently, rhythmically pulsing, waiting for their time to make their presence loudly clear. Now that I have worn his patience thin, now that I have tap danced on his last nerve, now that my father has finally snapped, the veins bulge on his reddened neck, a final “Do Not Enter” beacon that I, of course, ignore. Every drop of blood rushes to his head. Face flushed. Eyes squinted, locked on my pouting face. Jaw clamped, his lips pull away from his face in an overextended Al Capone sneer. Either obstinate defiance or sheer terror summons a giggle in me. I try as hard as I can to suppress it. Too late. My father senses, knows, sees that he is being mocked and it brings hellfire to his eyes. He charges at me like a bullet personified, no longer quite human, every bit of him fuming. His fists lift me, gripping my arms as if to strangle them like tiny necks, the force of his fury shaking my small form like a tissue in the wind. Panic. Desperation. Terror. “Daddy,” I plead, “Please Daddy, you'll give yourself a heart attack.” He charges through my caveat, his face now purple, his grip on me tightens, I catch forced whispers, “Why do you make me do this? Why can't you listen? Why don't you know? Why don't you see? Why don't you know?” Confusion. Guilt. Pain. A new tactic. “Daddy please,” I whisper back, “Ow, Daddy, you're hurting me.” The weight of my words hit my father like a kick to the face. He flings open his hands, dropping me to my bed. His eyes open, terrified and bloodshot. As his face drains, he steps away like a fearful child and crumbles to the floor. The werewolf has finally fallen back into a man.
A decade later, I have not forgotten that day, those few minutes. It was when I learned there was a time bomb ticking inside my father, when I learned that enough really could be enough. Since then, I have tried my hardest to keep him at bay and yet I have seen the fire flash in his eyes, his wrinkled face tensing, more times than I can count. He has charged at me, swung at walls, sent expletives flying out of him like popping corn. But we remember that day well and we watch our steps. We play chicken with the line we once burst through, daring each other to meet on the other side but too afraid to let ourselves take another step. And so we have coasted there for nearly ten years, on the brink of my father's temper. He has never raised his hand to me again. Now that we are both “grown up,” I doubt he ever will. And yet, I fear my father's temper and the unique kind of anger that fuels it. His anger does not feed on hate or rage. His anger stems from love, his fury is the child of his fear. I cannot tell you which I fear more, my father's wrath or the pain hiding behind it. In truth, I am terrified of both. So I toe the line and bide my time, forever sneaking glances at the veins in his neck.
Here is a man with a volcanic temper. If he were an animal he would be a bull. His color is red.
The Sniffler
Watching home movies of my third Halloween, I can't help but notice how much my daddy has changed. When exactly did his jet black hair fade to charcoal gray? When did years of paternal frustration pepper his face with wrinkles? It must have all happened while I wasn't watching. Suddenly I am racked with the fear that my daddy is slipping away from me and begin my frantic search for similarities, for remnants of the past. Ah, his mustache. It has returned to his face after many years away, like an old friend, familiar yet not quite re-memorized. Although lighter now, it still tries to hide his stern smile. His lips still press together to try to hide his teeth, but his chin still quivers when he laughs, revealing that he is indeed having a good time.
The daddy in the video, clad in long socks and short shorts, throws my young Minnie Mouse dressed self into the air with a laugh. “PooPoo Annie,” he calls out to me, “Who's that pretty, pretty girl?” His eyes gleam, their light dancing so brightly the camera makes it look like fire. I hug his ankles as tightly as my little body can. Squeaking, cooing, laughing. Vibrant and exultant, Daddy swipes the mouse ears from my head and plants his giant cowboy hat on me. We giggle at each other for a while, in our strange costumes, at our strange selves. His rough hands touch me with extreme tenderness; his presence showers me with love.
Later that night we watch videos of him trying to teach me to golf with little plastic clubs, carving many a Thanksgiving turkey, doing his best to sing along with a little girl that never shut up. I am entranced by my small, radiant self. I lose track of time and place. “Annie,” Evan's whisper brings me back to reality. “Annie, go hug your dad. He's crying.” Stunned, I turn my eyes to my aged father sitting a few feet from us. Sure enough, his now-tired eyes have tears in them. As he silently chokes them back, the same gleam shines from his eyes. “My God,” I think, “I had forgotten that he cries.”
I don't know how I could have forgotten that. Come to think of it, it was pretty common in my childhood. My birthdays, holidays, report cards, dance recitals, all were marked with a joyful tear or two. Did he stop crying or did I just stop looking? I am almost positive it is my sensitivity, and not his that has changed. Recently I asked my mother about my daddy's crying habits. I must have sounded surprised. “What?” she blasted at me, “Oh, honey, your father has always cried. We had to stop our wedding three times for tissue breaks.” She went on to tell the tale of how he needed three different versions of the “Ave Maria” sung, how his vows were rendered almost inaudible by tears. She joked with me about how he has always cried during my choir concerts, graduations, school plays. “The man would weep,” she said. Funny, I barely recall a sniffle, though I don't doubt for a second that they were there. The conversation darkens. “You know his father died in his arms,” she whispers, “ They were in their front yard and your dad just held him as he died.” Suddenly, I wish I could be there, more than thirty years ago, to hush his tears. I wish I could have hugged his ankles.
Here is a man who loves with every fiber of his being. If he were an animal he would be a baby bunny. His color is pink.
The Brick Wall
I barely noticed his arrival. My father sits at our kitchen table, diligently sorting the mail. My mother and I come at him like a two-fronted army, blasting him with our loud news of the day, our over-dramatized trials and tribulations. He silently drinks it all in, emotionless. Finally, he looks up into my eyes. For the first time, I notice how tired his eyes have become. Their rich brown color has faded to a murkier gray, or at least it seems that way. They hint at a glimmer of joy in him, so small I almost didn't catch it. For a moment, this silences my mother and me. He returns to sorting the mail and we once again revamp our tirade. We prattle on for hours about my grade school drama, my mom's hectic travel schedule, some pointless show we saw on TV.
Finally the conversation swings his way. “How was your day at work?” my mother asks. He looks up slowly and manages to simply croak, “The same.”
I must have heard him say that a thousand times as he slaved away for the same company for almost thirty years. I recall the story of how he landed in his cubicle. As the son of immigrants, my father sought to make his family proud. He chose to emulate his Uncle Emil, the only college educated person that he knew and became an engineer. Only 8 people of the original forty-five in his class graduated. He fought through it and got his college diploma, though. I'm sure he did it because he wanted to make something of his life. I am certain he labored long hours to make my grandmother proud. He has always hated engineering, but it has become all he knows. From time to time he mentions, with a slight tinge of sadness, how he could have played pro-soccer, how he wanted a career in art. Yet his mother's pride sticks with him, and he says he'll leave the art career up to me.
I wish he could have done what he loved, but I'm not surprised that he didn't. He has always been a selfless and soft-spoken man. His quietness can be read as indifference, but in my twenty years, I have slowly learned it means he is drinking everything in. His stern Sicilian visage is misleading. It hides the teddy bear inside him. As he tells me about his time in the armed services, I try hard to pinpoint the remnants of a childhood in relatively poor south St. Louis: replacing “four” with “faahr” and “humorous” with “umorous.” His speech is broken by pauses and “umm”'s, hiding his incredible intelligence. My father does not really have “a head for knowing” and yet he knows more than I could ever imagine. His slight dyslexia forces him to read everything several times, it takes him weeks to finish a book, and yet his office is filled to the brim with business books, travel logs, engineering manuals, and Wall Street Journals . He can quote most of them verbatim, even things that haven't left the shelf in years. He speaks in jargon I cannot begin to comprehend. He is a smart man because he works hard to be a smart man. He always has.
In a home with my loud mother and me, it is easy for him to blend in to the background. I don't think he minds it there, but I wish the quirky, proud, strong man I know would surface more often. Now, on the verge of my own adulthood, I finally realize that he has too often been the pawn of others: the perfect son, the model soldier, the cubicle-dwelling peon, the stronghold for two nearly-crazy women. I wish he could find a part of himself that doesn't revolve around someone else. I wish he could live for himself. More than anything, I wish I could go back in time and keep his life from simply being “the same.”
Here is a man who works every minute of his life. If he were an animal he would be an ant. His color is navy blue.
The Magnet
“Oh my God, Dad,” I joke, “are you going to wear that again?” I throw a sneer at his sweatshirt that proudly bears the logo of his new company, Movere Publishing. He has worn it every day of our two-week vacation. “Well, why not? I like it!” he simply replies. When the Florida sun renders his favorite sweatshirt unwearable, he peels it away to reveal, lo and behold, a Movere t-shirt. I cannot help but laugh at this. He doesn't mind. “I'll be back when we're rich,” he says and trots away, my mother's latest book in tow. He treats that thing like his new baby, proudly showing it to everyone he meets, talking it up to bookstores and strangers alike. As I watch him walk away, I notice a bounce in his step I haven't seen in years. He reminds me of a young girl scout, exuberantly running off on her first cookie sale. Where he's headed I'm not sure. I swear he's already hit all the coffee shops, independent bookstores, Ritz Carlton lobbies, and libraries from Destin to Sarasota . I guess today he's out to conquer all the beachside rest-stops, park benches, and smoothie bars. I know he won't be rich when he returns, but he'll be happy, and honestly, that's good enough for me.
I swear sitting at Starbucks is my dad's favorite thing to do. He calls it “networking.” What do two CEO's of major St. Louis businesses, a Pulitzer award winning lesbian, Elvis Costello's producer, and about five hundred rich old ladies have in common? My dad. These people stick to him as if he were made out of Velcro. His “Hey guess who I met today stories” never cease to amaze me, but they are becoming trite, like my grandfather's uphill both ways freezing trek to school. Yet, for my father they are golden. It's not about the money he may or may not make off of a book sale. These strangers give my father what he has always desperately wanted: a place in this world that is distinctly his, and one that he can be proud of. They talk to him. They listen to him. The buy him coffee and beg him to brag about my mother some more. He shows them wallet pictures of me and tells them how I'm an editing prodigy who's as smart as a whip and should be the next American Idol. They eat it up like candy. He pulls out the book and they have signed the dotted line before he even says its title. But most importantly, little old ladies and CEOs alike treat him like their equal, like their new best friend. The man I thought of as silent for so long is now the core of a dynamic whirlwind of excitement. At age sixty, he has finally found himself. He has arisen from his cubicle days, a Hawaiian shirt-clad Phoenix , and I am certain he is never going back.
Here is a man with pride in his heart. If he were an animal he would be a peacock. His color is purple.
I realize now that, for a large amount of my life, I did my father a huge injustice. There is nothing I wouldn't pay to go back in time and tell my young self what I know now: that his anger is caused by love and pain, that he felt under-appreciated, that his silence was not indifference but the highest form of involvement. I see him now as a lesson in duality, of living proof that wannabe mobsters can be kind, tempers can be sensitive, Oscar Madison can be Felix Unger.
I look back on my memories with nothing but the best sentiments. I'm sure I will always remember his strong arms lifting me and shaking me and the pain his silence often caused me, but these memories are so quickly replaced by the good. I remember watching that same man pace the train platform, full of anticipation, waiting for me to arrive. I remember the way tears came to his eyes when he simply said, “I will always believe in you” when I needed to hear it most. And the occasional jokes he makes, and the horrible French he speaks, and how, in the end, I am 100% certain that I can always go running to my daddy. That he supports me, that he loves me, and that he will always be there waiting in the wings smiling his secret tight-lipped smile, his tired eyes gleaming.
Here is a man who has many different sides, and all are based in love. I know now that no animal could ever be used to stereotype or classify him. No color could ever summarize him. He is a good man, and he is a spectrum of dazzling light.