Love and Expectations.
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I spent a lot of my teenage years longing.
I longed for a smaller nose, a longer body, and the ability to stay on beat while dancing to the Hustle. I yearned for a soulful singing voice with incredible range to replace my mediocre one.
But above all else, I longed for a normal father. One who didn’t wear stained and ripped t-shirts. One who went to work every day and put his dentures in when he left the house.
I wanted my mother to say, “Wait till your father gets home,” or “Your Father will know the answer to that question.”
But I didn’t have that kind of a dad. He neither set down any rules, nor did he know the answers to my questions.
His area of expertise was fun. Dad’s loud, contagious belly laugh could be heard from one end of our 50’s Rambler home to the other. He would get into such laughing fits, he’d have to race out of the room to catch his breath. Mostly this happened when he saw his favorite comedy show, Candid Camera.
While the rest of the family watched TV from the couch, Dad’s small stout body leaned against the door frame as he peered into the room. Always in a yellowed t-shirt full of holes, loose brown pants and barefoot, he was ready to run away. He’d start chuckling even before anything happened. One hand on his enormous belly and the other tucked into his thickly greased back, ebony hair.
When the antics on the show became outrageous, his belly started moving up and down and his chuckles turned into howls. Doubled over in hysterics, he darted out of the room, down the long hall, the sound of his laughter trailing behind him. We cracked up at Dad, then the show, and then Dad again.
Anticipation of fun hung in the air when Dad entered a room. That is if he was in a good mood. His ability to explode in playful laughter was matched only by his ability to explode in rage. At times his anger turned inward, depression so fierce he slept for weeks on end.
Looking back, it’s obvious these extreme mood swings were part of his bi-polar disorder, but back in the early seventies, no one talked about those things. I knew my father was on medication. I didn’t know more than that.
My longing continued. I grew angry and he grew defensive. I wanted a reliable and responsible father, but that was more than he could give. An icy wall developed between us. For over a year, we barely spoke. When we did exchange words, it was curt.
The summer before going off to college, I landed a job at Bubbee’s Jewish Delicatessen, across the street from the Boston Garden. Bubbee’s was upscale, and served the best knishes in town. Local businesspeople bought lunch there regularly.
I loved the ritual of taking the train to work each morning and counting my money on the kitchen table at night. Occasionally, Dad would come by, asking, “How much are they paying you again?” And I’d repeat, “Minimum wage plus tips.” He never asked anything else, just shook his head and went on with what he was doing.
High noon at Bubbee’s was hectic. A long line stretched from the deli counter to the door. Bustling conversation and laughter filled the space. I was taking orders as fast as I could. In an effort to stay calm, I promised myself I would only look at my current customer and not down the line.
“Pickles with your tuna, ma’am? And what would you like to drink?”
Placing the woman’s sandwich and soda on her tray, I glanced at the next customer and froze, mortified at what stood before me. The pounding in my chest was so furious, my face was instantly painted crimson.
There was my father in his best rendition of a Texas tycoon that the Goodwill’s half-off bin had to offer. Dressed in a cherry red polyester plaid blazer and different plaid but also red pants. His thistle blue eyes danced with delight from underneath a big straw cowboy hat. To complete the outfit, a fake leather bolo circled his neck, resting on his favorite stained and hole-filled t-shirt.
“I’ll have a hot pastrami on rye,” Dad said with a wink.
Quickly, I made his sandwich, avoiding eye contact in the hopes that he’d disappear. Without a word, I put Dad’s sandwich on the counter and looked directly at the next customer.
Refusing to move on, my father grabbed a twenty from his wallet and slammed it on the counter. In a loud Texan drawl, booming above the clatter of the restaurant, Dad proclaimed, “Why, this is the best darn service I’ve ever received! This girl deserves a raise. Where’s your boss, honey?”
Before I had a chance to respond, my boss and one of the cooks rushed out of the kitchen. Each grabbed an arm and quickly escorted him outside. Silence fell upon the restaurant as everyone watched the three men leave. Standing on the other side of the long glass windows, my father’s arms danced through the air as he made large gestures to emphasize his point. I stared at the unfolding scene.
The next customer cleared her throat to get my attention. “I’ll have two knishes and a small chicken soup.”
The corners of my mouth forced a smile. “I’ll get that right away, ma’am,” I said, my eyes darting from her face to the window. My father was gone.
Placing her order on the counter, the door flung open and my boss shouted in an exasperated tone, “Jackie, why didn’t you tell us that was your father?” The cook walked straight back into the kitchen without looking at me.
For years, I was embarrassed by my father’s shenanigans, and frustrated that he couldn’t just be normal. I longed for him to just put his arm around me and tell me he cared. I longed to have him tell me he believed in me.
Although it has taken me years, I have begun to understand that love can be hidden in the unexpected. My father’s declaration of love came by riding the subway into Boston dressed as a Texas tycoon.
***
Jackie Brown, an elementary school teacher, has worked in high-poverty schools both in the States and abroad for 26 years. Her career has taken her to Northern Ireland, Northern India, and both tribal and public schools in Washington State. She is dedicated to informing all educators, administrators and lawmakers about the effects of childhood trauma, its impact on brain development and a student’s ability to learn. Through Yoga, mindfulness and love, Jackie has helped build resiliency in both herself and her students. When not teaching, Jackie spends her time backpacking, rabble-rousing, cooking huge feasts for her friends, and volunteering in her community. She currently teaches First Grade in Bellingham, WA.
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