I'm almost forty and just understanding my father
doesn't like me. At thirteen I quit basketball, the next year
refused to hunt, I knew he was disappointed, but never
thought he didn't have to like me
to love me. No girls. Never learned
to drive a stick. Chose the kitchen and mom
while he went to the woods with friends who had sons
like he wanted. He tried fishing--a rod and reel
under the tree one Christmas. Years I tried
talking deeper, acting tougher
when we were together. Last summer
I went with him to buy a tractor.
In case he needs help, Mom said. He didn't look at me
as he and the sales guy tied the wheels to the trailer, perfect
boy-scout knots. Why do I sometimes wish I could be a man
who cares about cars and football, who carries a pocketknife
and needs it? It was January when he screamed: I'm not
a student, don't talk down to me! I yelled: You're not
smart enough
to be one! I learned to fight like his father, like him, like men:
the meanest guy wins, don't ever apologize.
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