Note: After some writing and thinking, I decided this next bit belongs in this piece, and not my Jeep story/continuation of Little Blue Feather. So, while I'm comfortable ending this piece at the page above, I also think this next bit is relevant to this piece. I don't think this piece will be satisfyingly finished, to me at least, till I return to the Minnesota farm. Clearly, I have much to process and realize. It ain't gonna come full circle till I return to the farm, at least. But, I digress...

Also, this section is super heavy and gets super dark at times. I learned a lot about my dad and other paternal relatives I didn't get to know before. There's R-rated, then there's the shit I learned from my dad. Long story short, I'm actually glad I didn't attend my grandma Shirley's funeral. I will find another way to gain closure. 

 

 

 

"I guess there's no easy way to say this but," Dad hesitated as we ate lunch together at a small Mexican restaurant, "I-I'm glad you weren't at Grandma Shirley's funeral."

I stared at my dad with an inquisitive scowl. I stayed quiet for him to elaborate. 

"Y'know, the culture of our family. The culture of that entire community in general- doesn't talk about feelings. They take pride in not complaining, in not crying, in not pointing out when things are shitty. They deal with their issues in very, very unhealthy and toxic ways. It ain't just the drugs, alcohol, suicides, and murders that are problematic. Clearly, they are. But, they're the results of a much more... uhhhh... subtle? Issue. You pickin' up what I'm puttin' down?"

"I think so..." I nodded, "Go on."

"That issue has been heavily ingrained in the church I grew up in for as long as it's been around. And, that issue- if I'm going to give it a name- is basically called being Toxically Positive. You got nothin' to bitch about if you're not a starving child in Africa, y'know. Even then, many of my high school peers would say that so long as you've got Jesus, you've got everything. Even if you're a starving child in some impoverished community in Sudan or some shit, if you're a Christian- or more specifically- a Conservative Trinitarian Lutheran Christian, then you've still got nothin' to complain about, 'cause you've still got Jesus." Dad continued, stuttering and stopping between words as he struggled to put into words what he wanted to convey, 

"So, of course, at gramma's funeral, Pastor really tried to make her situation seem as lighthearted and voluntary as possible. He'd say shit like, 'She went on her own terms' , 'She went peacefully and without struggle', 'She didn't complain one little bit, cuz she had the Lord'. Pretty abrasive shit like that, at best. At worst, Pastor was spewing lies. Yet, in that church and in that culture I grew up in, saying shit like that's the norm. It's more offensive to admit one's struggles and feelings than it's to actually be honest with others. To be open and expressive. You still following?"

"I think so, Dad..." I nodded again. 

"Friends, distant family, Pastor, hell even my own brothers and sister- they didn't have a damn clue how to deal with gramma's passing. At the wake, so many people came up to me and had the gull to tell me not to cry because gramma was in a much better place, and she wouldn't want me to cry. But, that just ain't healthy. When Pastor said somethin' similar at her funeral, it took everything I had not to chuck the hymn book at him... I had to walk out and take a break outside for a few." Dad explained with tears in his eyes, "That's why I'm glad you weren't at the funeral. Plus, I would like to talk about the past- our past- with the understanding that neither you nor I are the same people we were five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago."

"Are you suggesting we start attending therapy together again?" I asked, "Cause if that's the case, I'm all for it!"

"Sure. If that's what you want." Dad nodded, "But, what about having one-on-one conversations like what we're havin' right now? How do you feel about that?"

"I actually think that's a decent idea, so long as we don't cross each other's boundaries."

"Of course!" Dad nodded, "But, I would like to... well... at least, share my perspective of the past with you, as well as talk about where I came from and why I was and am the way that I... well... was and am. And also why I think it's best you didn't go to gramma's funeral. Y'know?"

"Yeah," I nodded, "But... why? I don't mean that in a dismissive way. I just would like to know what's changed with you, or what hasn't changed, if that makes any sense."

"Well... I think the change began with grandpa's funeral." Dad said as he looked down at his hands, scowling with focus, "Honestly, I dreaded you comin' down to the farm for his funeral. Not because I didn't want you there. Obviously, I did. But, because there was basically no relationship between you and my wife, my son, or my stepson. And, because of the nature of the church there. And, I didn't know how things would turn out... But, when you stepped out of aunt Stacy's car and saw me and my wife standing out in the yard, there was no conflict between you and my wife. Sure, there was no interaction at all, but you guys remained calm and relatively cordial with one another that whole trip. That was actually a nice surprise, at least to me. But, I wonder what your perspective from that trip was?"

"Frankly, I can't even really remember that trip." I admitted, "Hell, I can hardly remember anything from much of my past. It's all just melded into one giant mess of foggy memories. I'd have to look back at my writings from that time to really figure out, and perhaps dig up some memories, what was going on. I'm sure it wasn't anything bad, though, given the time and place."

Dad nodded, obviously wanting me to continue on. 

"And, these days, I can definitely say that I have basically no hard feelings- at least, in the moment- towards you, your wife, your son or stepson. Things today are way different than they were X number of years ago. As an adult, I have autonomy to choose where I wanna go, who I wanna see, who I wanna interact with, etc. I'm not bound to one place or another like I was when I was really little. And, now that I no longer feel so trapped, I feel a lot less defensive and afraid. On top of that, as you said, we were very different people X years ago. If college's taught me anything so far, it's that twenty and thirty-somethings are really fucking dumb. How could I expect anything more from you or my mom. Y'all were what? 22 and 23 when I was born?"

"23 and 24." Dad corrected me, "Still young and incredibly dumb."

"Well, yeah." I agreed, "Still, as I was sayin', I want to make it absolutely clear that I harbor no real ill-feelings towards you or your family. At least... not in a personal way."

"What do you mean by a personal way?" Dad asked. 

"Well, I'm more pissed off at the circumstances more than anything." I clarified, "I know you weren't perfect, my mom wasn't perfect- nobody was perfect. Even now, none of us's perfect. I can't say I can be mad at you for who you were five, ten, fifteen, twenty years ago. But, I'm still very bitter towards mine- well, our circumstances. They weren't anyone's fault. But, I've definitely got a lot of thorns in my side. I hope I'm making sense..."

"You are." Dad nodded, "Sounds like you worked all of your feelings towards the adults in your life out in therapy?"

"Well, I also just got older." I chuckled, "Covid really opened my eyes in regards to how alarmingly dumb so many adults can be. College has really shown me how dumb and immature most twenty-and-thirty-somethin's are, myself included-"

"You're not stupid like that." Dad interrupted, "You're the world's youngest eighty-year-old, in terms of behavior. And you're literally a genius. But, continue."

"As I was saying..." I began with a smile, "I can't look back at the past expecting twenty-somethin'-year-old you to have known or done much, if any, better. Same goes for my mom, your wife, every other adult in our lives. Hindsight's twenty-twenty, y'know? Truth is, y'all did the best you could given the circumstances and your limited understanding and knowledge at the time. Clearly, you did somethin' right. Not only am I still alive, somehow, but you're still in my life. You know how many dads in your situation would've just walked out?"

"You've got one hell of a point, kiddo." Dad sniffled, but he smiled to hold back the tears. 

"Plus, I remember hearing from one of my therapists-I forget which one- but one of 'em said to me, 'When you're growing up, you're also watching your parents grow up'. Since then, I've held that quote near and dear to myself as I've worked through my past in therapy, in my writings, in my mind and sleep. All the anger and shoulda-woulda-coulda's I had towards you, my mom, really every adult who's been in my life since the very beginning, were extinguished when I realized that. With that said, if you and Mom hadn't changed over the last twenty years, things would probably be very different. If you hadn't learned a damn thing in the past twenty years, I'd be very pissed. But, good news is, I'm not pissed at all. I'm actually quite proud of the family I've got."

"Well... That's good to hear..." Dad muttered as he chewed on a bite of his burrito. I could still see the intense emotions in his face. 

"Knowing all of that, I'm more than willing to start exploring the past and healing the present with you, Dad. I think it's very important that we do that. We gotta break those toxic cultural norms you, and to a certain extent, I, grew up with. Clearly, that shit runs deep. But, if there's a will to shed that toxicity, there's damn sure a way."

Dad swallowed, "That's one of the main reasons why I left the farm as soon as I could. Because I knew, from a very young age, that somethin' was seriously wrong with the people and the place I grew up around. I just couldn't put a finger on it till decades later." 

"I mean... could you get into the nitty gritty, or is it still too fresh?" I asked, my curiosity piqued. 

"I could..." Dad pondered, "If you're alright with it, since we're eating lunch 'n all."

"Well..." I half-smiled, "Spit it out!"

For the next half hour, Dad relayed some very M-Rated information to me about his teenage and early adult years. He largely stayed away from the crowds who were heavily into drinking, drugs, and other such activities. But, he did know people from school who got neck-deep into addiction and untreated mental health issues. Many of them died as a result, some are still stuck in that vicious cycle of addiction, depression, and violence. 

"Perry was one such guy..." Dad sighed (for reference, Perry was my aunt Stacy's boyfriend of almost twenty years. But, in 2019, exactly one year to the date after my grandpa died, Perry committed suicide), "I knew from the very beginning that he wasn't in the best of places. I told Stacy not to date him, but she was convinced he had a good heart and was perfectly fine, and dated him anyway. I never saw him be violent or strung-out on anything, but the signs of his depression were very evident his entire life. In fact, he lost a brother, a cousin, his mom, and his grandma all to suicide."

"Damn..." I mumbled. 

"So, I can't say I was very surprised when I heard that Perry had ended himself, too. In my mind it was only a matter of time. Unfortunately, Perry's not the only guy I knew who died by suicide." Dad sighed, "Untreated mental illness has taken the lives of several of my former high school classmates." 

"Why so?" I asked, knowing the answer but still wanting to hear it from my dad. 

"Well... obviously, the culture strongly discouraged people from asking for help." Dad explained, "Us men were taught never to cry or show any sort of negative emotion that made us look weak. If you cried or showed fear or talked about feelings, you'd be looked down upon by others at best. At worst, you'd basically be shunned. Dying by suicide or alcohol or drugs were seen as more respectable than going to therapy or crying it all out. It sounds preposterous, and it is! But, that's just the nature of the culture I'd been raised in. Not to mention how ingrained the church's doctrine was, and still is, in those parts. Conservative Lutherans have ruled over Southern Minnesota basically since the first Germans arrived there."

"I'm starting to get it..." I mumbled, "You left because of how toxic many parts of that culture was?"

"Exactly!" Dad nodded. 

"Do you think it will ever change?" I asked, "I mean- it's gotta. Right?"

"Well... yes and no. I do think many midwestern rural areas, including Lake City and Zumbro Falls, will one day progress well beyond their backwards roots. In some ways, it already has and is happening. The younger generations are much more educated and accepting than the older folks down there, for the most part. But, it's gonna take country towns much longer to change and progress than the cities will, especially because the older, more conservative types tend to live more rurally than many aspiring yuppies like me. At least, when I was growing up, you were either a farmer, someone who worked for a farmer, a homemaker, or a mechanic. To be most of everything else, you had to pack your shit and leave, which is what I did. Pretty much the same week I graduated from Rochester Community College, I packed up my life in the back of my pickup truck and left for Boulder, Colorado for a job opportunity."

"But, with the internet, do you think it is and will change?" I asked, timidly, "If I end up in a career that can be done 100% from home, I plan on living in the middle of nowhere. Or, at least as rurally as the farm is."

"Of course!" Dad nodded, "And, my perspective shouldn't discourage you from pursuing that goal, if it's still a goal by the time you graduate with whatever degree you want. I just think it's important to lay out why I got the fuck outta dodge and moved to Yuppieville, and what I think you should watch out for if you choose to move outside of town. It's basic street-smarts. Plus, many rural communities are still super backwards morally. Hence, is why I'm glad you didn't go to gramma's funeral. The last thing you'd needed to hear was the bullshit Pastor was spewin' that day."

I sat in silence while Dad took a swig of his water. I could tell he wasn't ready to get off his soapbox just yet. 

"Like I said, I had to take a break from the service. It struck a nerve, as you can probably tell."

"Yeah, you're definitely very passionate." I agreed, "But, continue. I wanna hear all about it!"

"Well..." Dad took in a breath, "One of the biggest gripes I had with Pastor that day, which is frankly something I've always took issue, was how much he... I guess, for lack of better terms... put down the emotions of grief and despair like they were sinful emotions to have. To do this, Pastor cherrypicked the fuck out of the Bible, and even Biblically-illiterate me saw just how the Scripture he used to Bible-bash us was so twisted. It was sickening!"

"Yeah, I agree." I nodded, taking a sip of water, "If you actually read the damn Bible, you'd find that even Jesus wept."

"Exactly," Dad nodded, "But, in churches like the one I was raised in, they completely ignore everything that isn't butterflies and unicorn farts. No wonder people are leaving the church in droves, even in those small towns."

"Yup." I nodded. 

"But, I've got another confession to make," Dad sighed, "I wanna go back to church. There's gotta be churches out there that aren't backwards cults."

"Wait... I thought you were a rabid atheist, Dad." I laughed, "The hell happened?"

"Well..." Dad trailed off as he searched for words, "I guess I was. But, not toward the character of Christ. Christ- whether or not He existed or was actually God- was a cool dude. I believe if people strove to emulate the person Christ was, this world would be a much better, much more giving and inclusive place. I was- and I guess, am- a foaming-at-the-mouth atheist towards the churches like I'd grown up in."

"But, those are bigots you're very much against," I pointed out, "Not necessarily God."

"Well, right." Dad agreed, "As I said, I'm not angry at the being whom Christ was. Now, I'm not sure I believe in Him either. But, I damn sure am pissed at the church. I'm not sure how or why the church has so severely corrupted the message of Christ. But, whatever the reason, it's really fuckin' things up right now. And, was really fuckin' things up in the 80's and 90's with their Satanic Panic bullshit, which hasn't really gone away." 

Before I could interrupt my dad, he continued, "But, there is hope. This morning when we drove past that little church on Simms, I saw they had a little Pride flag posted on their sign. There's also another church near my house that has a Pride flag hung up in one of their front-facing windows. Seems like the church might finally be reforming, one little place at a time. Give it ten or fifteen years, and maybe that little Lutheran church I grew up in will follow suit. And, maybe I'll find God again."

For the first time in a long time, I was literally speechless, but in a very good way. I just couldn't believe my ears; my cynical, pessimistic, atheistic, everything-will-be-just-fine dad had clearly undergone some major growth over the last twenty years or so. Since I turned 21, my old man seemed to know that I was ready to hear his side of things. That I could fully understand and digest why he was the way that he was. And, perhaps we could finally rectify our rocky, distant past.

Perhaps, this was God's way of answering one of my last major unanswered prayers: the one wherein I begged for a closer relationship with my father. One where I sobbed for healing and understanding, for a father I could love and trust and be close with. A prayer that would take a major miracle to answer. 

And... well. I think I got my answer.