The Father Space: Second Posting

By John Kauffman

I didn't really know my father at all.

That was the conclusion I came to one evening over dinner. My wife, my two-year-old daughter, and my in-laws were making the family rounds in New England one summer, and we decided to accept a dinner invitation from one of my dad's former coworkers - and friend. We would have never thought to stop by on our vacation - he was my dad's friend, not mine. But we had run into each other at my sister's wedding, discussed our plans for the summer, and a date for dinner was made.

I don't recall the context of the conversation, but I remember the comment clearly. My father's friend told me, "you know John, your father is one of the top three or four people in his field."
More than a bit surprised I blurted, "Really!?" It was the only reply I could muster.

As a child my father always struck me as unassuming. He was never one to talk-up himself or his accomplishments. He seemed to know a lot of stuff, but I don't ever recall thinking he was infallible or all knowing - in large part because he never portrayed himself that way. When my childhood questions received an "I don't know," I always knew it was because he really didn't know... not because he was trying to shrug off pestering questions. More often than not, "I don't know" answers preceded chaperoned trips to my father's 1956 vintage encyclopedias.

He seemed to know his place in the world. Other kids talked about their fathers being supervisors, managers, or division leaders... so naturally I asked my father if he was a manager. "Why on Earth would I want to do something like that to myself," he answered with his usual dry wit. More seriously he added, "I like what I do John. I always thought it was more important to do what you like." To a ten year old kid that sounded an awful lot like rationalization, even if I didn't know what the actual word meant at the time.

It never seemed like we had a lot of money either. I knew we weren't poor, but I also knew we didn't have as much as others. We lived in a medium sized house with a decidedly frugal, middle class lifestyle.

All of this suggested we were all pretty average, my father included. As a child it seemed decidedly un-cool to be average.

Then I grew up. Being average no longer seemed to be the stigma it once had.
Then I went to college, met my wife, found a smidge of self confidence, found the courage to apply myself, and found I wasn't as average as I thought.

Then I heard The Comment.

That was when I began to re-evaluate my father, with my hard earned, newfound appreciation for how hard it must have been to get advanced degrees in chemistry and physics.

I was always painfully shy and slow think of rejoinders, but my dad always seemed to have something witty to say. I assumed he was an outgoing guy. Then I realized he never hung out with or talked about his friends, and I wondered if maybe he was just as shy as me.

I've always been a classic hypochondriac. You name a symptom and I can tell you when and why I thought I had it, and how soon I thought it would kill me (usually sometime while I was asleep, when I was helpless to seek assistance). I think my father had some of his emotions locked up in storage out of state. He loved us and he had his way of showing us he loved us, but he always seemed the coolest of customers, never one to show panic or fear. Then I had a talk with my mother and I heard the fears he shared with her, but shielded from the kids.

Now I think my father and I are more alike, and maybe always have been. More importantly, I think that makes me extremely fortunate. Now realize all the things he taught me by example: the virtue of modesty, the importance of living a life not a career, the difference between needs and wants, the value of curiosity and the rewards of self-discovery.

Now I'm pretty damn proud of my father. He is my father, my mentor, and my friend; and I'd be lucky to be a quarter the father he was to me.

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If you'd like to visit John's blog go here.

The Father Space: First Posting

Here goes the first posting for The Father Space. I figured I better go first. I hope the rest of you are thinking about submitting. Comments on writing welcome. Cheers! Colleen


My Father's Faith

My father remains an enigma. He died twenty-six years ago at a time before I had the lexicon or courage to ask the questions I would ask today. The things I think I know about him are unformed and contradictory. His staunch support of human rights versus the cruel way he treated my mother, for example. He’s been a tough guy to figure out.

But every family has its legends. Stories told and retold by older ones to younger ones who listen with rapt attention, understanding what they are able, the facts retained to greater or lesser degree based on this understanding. There is such a legend about my father. It is the one thing about him that I am truly proud. This is how I remember it.

My father was a labour organizer in the 40s and 50s in the dirty mining towns of Northern Ontario and Quebec. It must have been a tough go in those primarily-Catholic communities at a time when the Church was anti-union. Priests would preach against the organization of workers from their pulpits and, pettily, not allow the men – for it would have been men back then – use of the chairs belonging to the diocese for their meetings. This was the final straw that drove my father from the Church – its stance on keeping people in poverty and under Church control, not its pigheadedness about chair usage. However, this story isn’t about his change in faith, but about his ideals.

By the late 1950s, and, I imagine, having grown very tired of the Church’s thrall over his constituency, my father left the North and became the director of the textile union in Toronto. The Textile Workers Union of America it was then; I’m not sure if that is still what it’s called. Working in the sweatshops of the textile industry, as you may know, is one of the worst jobs a person can have. It was a time when women were paid at a different – and lower rate – than men. It was a time when few of the labour standards that we take for granted today were in place.

It was a time when, exactly like today, union reps vote for their wage increases. Increases that are borne by the men and women who pay union dues.

In about 1963 – I believe I was four when this happened – the representatives of the textile union voted themselves a raise. It was a raise that my father believed the workers couldn’t afford. As director, he had the power to veto the raise and he did. Another cast of ballots was called and my father was voted out of power.

The guy with the ideals of equality and caring for your fellow man was out of work.

And so, he turned to his friends for help. Powerful friends who he had helped get elected turned their backs, couldn’t remember his name.

In anger, I suspect, my father took the union to court. I’m not clear whether wrongful dismissal was even on the books back then, but whatever the charges were, my father filed them then represented himself against the union lawyers.

My father won.

The judge told him he should have been a lawyer. The French kid from Northern Ontario with the high school diploma.

The union had to reinstate my father. He told them to go fuck themselves and walked away.

He changed his job and began negotiating on the side of management in the steel and then pulp-and-paper industries. He often set records in settling traditionally-difficult contracts. He changed his politics and began working on Liberal campaigns with the same fervour he had once devoted to the New Democratic Party.

My father first left the Church for his socialist beliefs. When these ideals did him in, I wonder at the personal cost he must have paid. I’ll never know.

Maybe this is a story about faith after all.

The Father Space: Pt II

I've begun giving some thought to what I might write about my father. This isn't going to be easy. I could write about what a prick he was, but since he's no longer around to defend himself, that doesn't seem fair. So, I have to find a way to offer some balance. To find a way of uncovering a piece of my father that is true and, perhaps, even compelling.

This is going to be interesting.

Writing ain't for sissies.

Colleen

The Father Space

(Thank you, Margaret Atwood for the above.)

Before I head out I wanted to share an idea with you.

A book has just been released called The First Man in my Life. (from Amazon) "In twenty-two original narratives, some of Canada’s most acclaimed writers share stories, memories, insights, and revelations—from the comic to the tragic, and every shading in between—about the first man in their lives. Complex, compelling, unforgettable, these stories will open a fresh and intense conversation with daughters everywhere about the men they’ve observed since childhood: their fathers.

"Contributors: Katherine Ashenburg, Anita Rau Badami, Christie Blatchford, Mary Anne Brinckman, Nancy Dorrance, Jane Finlay-Young, Camilla Gibb, Catherine Gildiner, Rebecca Godfrey, Rachel Manley, Sandra Martin, Lisa Moore, Sarah Murdoch, Marina Nemat, P.K. Page, Emma Richler, Eden Robinson, Rebecca Snow, Tina Srebotnjak, Susan Swan, Emily Urquhart, and Pamela Wallin"

I just listened to an interview with Anita Rau Badami and editor of the book, Sandra Martin and thought wouldn't it be a great idea for us to write and compile our own stories of our fathers? I think it would be even better to have stories of fathers from both men and women.

So, I'm inviting you to submit stories of your fathers. I haven't written mine yet, but will post it as soon as I'm done and hope you will too.

If this goes well, perhaps we can select other topics to write about and share here online.

Colleen