to say goodbye. They hugged and kissed. As George was wheeled down the long corridor and back to his room, Dad smiled and waved to his old friend for the last time.
George (
left
), Dad (
right
)
Dad was silent as we got in the car. I felt the need, as I always did with my father, to keep talking.
I could not remember ever having an in-depth conversation with my dad. I had never been comfortable revealing how I really felt or who I really was for fear of being criticized. Our conversations were more like the superficial banter on a talk show. Dad was the host. He asked me light, trivial questions, and I, the perfect, good-humoured guest, answered him in a cheerful and non-confrontational manner. I made jokes and he laughed as if it were my job toentertain him. It kept us engaged but at a distance. I longed for an intimate connection. That’s why I had suggested the trip. Dad was now in his eighties and I was in my fifties, and yet neither of us was at ease in each other’s presence. This was going to be the perfect opportunity, I thought, for us to let down our guard and speak from our hearts. After all, we were in an enclosed vehicle, unable to run from each other even if the intimacy became unbearable.
Dad’s demeanour was softer than usual. He was vulnerable after having spent time with his close friend. Our conversation began like it usually began. Dad asked me questions about my work, the same questions, the default questions, the safe questions, that he always asked.
“Do you have anything coming up, honey? Do you think you’ll be working with anyone famous? Will it be better than the TV show you just did? I hope so. Jesus Christ, that was a terrible show. It wasn’t very funny. None of my friends thought it was funny either. When do you think you’ll get a break?”
I laughed loudly and uncomfortably.
“Well, Dad, I shot a movie a year ago, and it’s out in theatres right now. It’s called
Hedwig and the Angry Inch.
I don’t think I’ve been more proud of anything. The movie has gotten rave reviews, and I’ve received some wonderful press from it. It’s kind of an underground film but so cutting-edge and hip and smart, and John Cameron Mitchell is a genius, and I am honoured to be in his company. The music score isbrilliant, and I think it will win many awards. I would love you to see it.”
“I saw it,” said my dad. “I didn’t like it. I couldn’t understand it. But your hair looked good.”
This time I didn’t laugh. I took a deep breath and held on tightly to the steering wheel. When I regained my composure, I spoke with compassion and clarity.
“Why would you say that, Daddy? Don’t you know how badly that makes me feel, how hurtful that is?” My dad was silent.
“What did you think of my acting?” I continued. “All the years you have seen me in plays and on TV and in movies, you have never commented on my acting. You talk about the other actors and how someone else stole the show, but with me you only talk about how I look. It makes me feel like you don’t think I have talent. That you don’t think I’m a good actress. That someone else is always better. You have never once told me you thought I was good in anything.”
Dad lowered his head and stared at his feet. After a few moments he spoke. His speech was halting and uncertain. His voice cracked. He was crying.
“I don’t know anything about acting,” he tried to explain. “But I do know about hair. I know what looks pretty.”
My dad’s vulnerability was heartbreaking. In that moment, he was a child who had been caught and scolded and was ashamed of what he had done. I was sorry I had confronted him. I wanted to retract everything I had said.
Neither of us spoke. I kept driving. Dad wiped his eyes as he turned away and looked out the window.
I took his hand and held it. “Daddy, can we make a pact?”
“What is it, Andrea?” he asked quietly.
“From here on in, every time you see me in anything,
George (
left
), Dad (
right
)
Dad was silent as we got in the car. I felt the need, as I always did with my father, to keep talking.
I could not remember ever having an in-depth conversation with my dad. I had never been comfortable revealing how I really felt or who I really was for fear of being criticized. Our conversations were more like the superficial banter on a talk show. Dad was the host. He asked me light, trivial questions, and I, the perfect, good-humoured guest, answered him in a cheerful and non-confrontational manner. I made jokes and he laughed as if it were my job toentertain him. It kept us engaged but at a distance. I longed for an intimate connection. That’s why I had suggested the trip. Dad was now in his eighties and I was in my fifties, and yet neither of us was at ease in each other’s presence. This was going to be the perfect opportunity, I thought, for us to let down our guard and speak from our hearts. After all, we were in an enclosed vehicle, unable to run from each other even if the intimacy became unbearable.
Dad’s demeanour was softer than usual. He was vulnerable after having spent time with his close friend. Our conversation began like it usually began. Dad asked me questions about my work, the same questions, the default questions, the safe questions, that he always asked.
“Do you have anything coming up, honey? Do you think you’ll be working with anyone famous? Will it be better than the TV show you just did? I hope so. Jesus Christ, that was a terrible show. It wasn’t very funny. None of my friends thought it was funny either. When do you think you’ll get a break?”
I laughed loudly and uncomfortably.
“Well, Dad, I shot a movie a year ago, and it’s out in theatres right now. It’s called
Hedwig and the Angry Inch.
I don’t think I’ve been more proud of anything. The movie has gotten rave reviews, and I’ve received some wonderful press from it. It’s kind of an underground film but so cutting-edge and hip and smart, and John Cameron Mitchell is a genius, and I am honoured to be in his company. The music score isbrilliant, and I think it will win many awards. I would love you to see it.”
“I saw it,” said my dad. “I didn’t like it. I couldn’t understand it. But your hair looked good.”
This time I didn’t laugh. I took a deep breath and held on tightly to the steering wheel. When I regained my composure, I spoke with compassion and clarity.
“Why would you say that, Daddy? Don’t you know how badly that makes me feel, how hurtful that is?” My dad was silent.
“What did you think of my acting?” I continued. “All the years you have seen me in plays and on TV and in movies, you have never commented on my acting. You talk about the other actors and how someone else stole the show, but with me you only talk about how I look. It makes me feel like you don’t think I have talent. That you don’t think I’m a good actress. That someone else is always better. You have never once told me you thought I was good in anything.”
Dad lowered his head and stared at his feet. After a few moments he spoke. His speech was halting and uncertain. His voice cracked. He was crying.
“I don’t know anything about acting,” he tried to explain. “But I do know about hair. I know what looks pretty.”
My dad’s vulnerability was heartbreaking. In that moment, he was a child who had been caught and scolded and was ashamed of what he had done. I was sorry I had confronted him. I wanted to retract everything I had said.
Neither of us spoke. I kept driving. Dad wiped his eyes as he turned away and looked out the window.
I took his hand and held it. “Daddy, can we make a pact?”
“What is it, Andrea?” he asked quietly.
“From here on in, every time you see me in anything,
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