On the Silent Architecture of Fatherhood

While reading Marin Bodakov’s letter about his father, I realized an unfortunate hypocrisy of mine. For years, anytime someone brought up families, I opened with: “I had a happy childhood.” I would proceed to tell them about how my struggling family moved abroad, about the once-a-week eating out policy my dad had installed to treat us and not make us feel like the outcasts we were among very rich expats.

My stories were full of love, despite the struggles and the two instances that made me doubt it all: Grandpa’s passing and my parents’ relationship. My parents didn’t marry out of love — or at least my mother didn’t. She wasn’t forced; she just wasn’t bothered or didn’t feel strongly about saying yes or no.

A Marriage of Circumstance

My mom and dad have a 13-year age gap and nothing in common. My dad grew up in Beirut, eldest of five other siblings, with his dad in Saudi Arabia. My mom grew up abroad — also in Saudi Arabia — to a mixed family. She was social, arty, smart, beautiful, top of the list at every bridal discussion. She designed her own dresses and graduated top of her class and eighth in the country. My mom was destined for medicine.

Their backgrounds couldn’t have been more different. Baba was shy, smart, an artsy kid who had few friends and lots of responsibility in a house missing a father. He studied architecture and married my mom a while after graduating. On their first night of marriage, my mom woke up in the hotel alone. Wondering where my father was, she called her dad and somehow instantly, they both knew Baba was at work. This would set the tone for their entire marriage.

My dad moved to Saudi Arabia after the assassination of Rafic Al Harriri — we followed not long after. Baba works hard and as annoying as that seemed to me growing up, I was forever grateful for his dedication. You see, my dad did everything for his family — three boys and a wife whom I could only perceive as a prize in the eyes of my father.

…

It’s weird because I always perceived Baba as old even when he wasn’t. Somehow, Baba’s age only brought him more power. Baba wasn’t present in my life in my opinion, but he was always there. I don’t think he showed me what or how it is to become a man, but he did teach me what I need to be to become a father through the things that he did and what he didn’t do. After all, I feel like Baba’s vision of what it is to become a man is centered around becoming a father. Baba is still here, getting older by the day and my fear growing stronger by the second.

…

Rediscovering Baba

A few weeks ago I called Baba and asked him about his drawings and artwork — frankly that is one of the few things we shared together and somehow I never asked. I was unaware that Baba still drew in his free time. It’s hypocritical how we view those older than us. If I had the time to read, write, and draw after working hours, why would my dad not be able to do so? He spent an hour taking me through pages of different designs, sketches, and the concepts that created his little mental utopia. I thought I knew him by then, but I apparently was missing a lot.

This conversation opened a new chapter in our relationship. I found myself eager to learn more about the man behind the father figure I had constructed in my mind. It was as if I was meeting a new person, one with dreams, passions, and a history I had never bothered to explore before.

…

I remember calling Baba on a December night to tell him about a girl — I am pretty sure my dad had never received such a call from any of his three sons. Baba’s dismissive — and offensive — take on the subject was expected, as he had always instilled in us the belief that education was the utmost priority. For some reason, Baba could not comprehend a world in which the two could coexist.

However, soon after, Baba opened up. He was the first to go to university in our family, yet somehow I had never imagined him as a “university student” and it doesn’t help that I heard no stories aside from a few about the war and his late night adventures with his friends to grab snacks from a store on the other side of the front lines. He told me about his friend, a girl, who was ready to leave all her plans and not move to the US, opting to stay in Lebanon for my father. She came a day before her scheduled flight, begging my father one last time, please say the word. My dad, being himself, didn’t say a thing, encouraging her to leave since God had not written this love story in his book — iconic Baba, I must admit, never heard of someone friend zoning someone via God himself. I was truly taken aback, my dad spoke to girls in university. Another line of hypocrisy, why could I never imagine that?

…

The Turning Point

There’s a detail that I had purposefully left out so far — possibly out of sheer embarrassment? Guilt? Shame? My happy childhood wasn’t so happy after all, as I grew up, my family’s troubles grew too.

I remember that fight in particular. Must be 12 years ago, or a little over was it? That fight…for the first time in my life, I remember sitting there, on what I can only sense as a cold floor tile, sobbing my eyes out, like a forlorn figure in an abandoned forest. I had caused that fight. My inadequate arithmetic skills — haunting me to this day — caused it. I don’t remember how the fight erupted but I remember that we were going out since my mother was dressed up. Someone was helping me with my elementary school math homework and I couldn’t comprehend the homework for the life of me. Baba said something and I just remember the fight erupting. My mom, crying and yelling. They started the fight in between the entrance of the living room and the hallway, and it went to the bedroom where I remembered the next few words like church bells ringing in my ears: “If you…(something I can’t remember)…then divorce me” my mom said. That was the one time I heard my parents ever saying these two words to each other; “divorce me”. Yet, I am haunted by the next three words to this day.

I hate myself.

Yelling at myself internally while sobbing. These three words haunt me, taking over at times as if I had Tourette’s syndrome. The combination of these three words would evolve as I grew up, with the verb gruesomely evolving.

All of a sudden, I was 13. My family had grown more affluent by then and I was much more mature. My parents’ relationship, never seemingly deteriorating or improving, remained constantly silent. I feel like both my brothers acted in delusion at times; don’t they see the trouble? hear the fights? feel the distance? I sat there questioning these realities in my head, I convinced myself I was the one being delusional. That is until my mother brought up a strikingly unexpected question while waiting for my dentist appointment. “How do you feel about our — my parents’ — relationship?” I was taken aback. How do I answer her? I had taken an oath to myself since my grandpa’s death to take care of her. I thought, if she had asked Grandpa this question, he’d tell her to stop suffering in silence. I proceeded to tell my mother, “They should divorce.” I remember the words I used and the way I presented it to her, no 13-year-old should be able to comprehend speaking like that in my head now; yet, I did.

Apparently, my opinion was not shared by my two brothers, as the eldest encouraged her to keep the marriage together for the kids — me and my twin — and my twin was too busy rebelling his life away, a divorce would have probably left him at a therapist’s office for years to come.

Where’s my father in all this you ask? Well, my father’s love had never been shaken. Even when he clearly saw and heard what he was doing wrong, in what I can only imagine being the hardest moments of his life; Baba never showed any hesitation. I don’t think Baba imagined a world without his marriage and family. You see, no matter how bad life got, my parents had this unshakable belief that we would still be taken care of. My dad, not once, hesitated to provide for us. My mom, not once, hesitated to care for us.

My dad showed me true love to his wife and family. Yes, he could have been more available, more present, more engaged, not just providing, but it is still love with all the shortcomings. I learned to never walk away. I learned to be present, to feel and act, not just exist.