Fathers and Sons

“I wish I could tell my father,” was among my first reactions to the news that one of my books, published a long time ago, was being translated into Chinese.  My father died in 1977, long before I had even conceived of the book.  But I’ve had a kind of continuing one-sided conversation with him ever since he died.  Had my mother lived a normal life span, I might have had such conversations with her as well, but she died young, more than 60 years ago, so it’s my father who is more often in my thoughts. 

When I wished that I could tell my father, it was because I knew the news would have pleased him, just as I’m pleased when one of my children announces an accomplishment.  Whether or not I deserve any credit, I feel that their attainments reflect well on me.  After all, I helped to form them.  So it must have been with my father.  But my sadness at not being able to tell my father the news reflected more than his inability to take pleasure from it.  I was also sad because I could not add to my stock of his approval. Forty-five years after he died, I still want his approval, even though I’m now older than he was when he died.  I don’t think I’m unusual in this respect.  Sons want their fathers’ approval and that desire remains alive long after their fathers have died.  No matter how old we become, no matter how long ago our fathers have died, we remain their sons.

When my father was alive I didn’t realize that if I wanted his approval, he also wanted mine.  What father doesn't want to be a hero in his son’s eyes?  And if not a hero (for how many of us are heroes?), at least respected, well thought of.  This is a truth I’ve learned from my experience with my own children.  I want their good opinion at least as much as I wanted it from my father. 

 

My father did not see the original publication of that book nor its translation into Spanish, nor will he see its translation into Chinese.  He did not see me win tenure or become a full professor.  But he saw my marriage and the birth of my two children, who were 10 and 12 when he died and thus gave him a chance to know them. My marriage and my children gave him far more pleasure than could any professional attainment.  I will try to remember that when I regret not being able to tell him about any other accomplishment, should there be any more to report.


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