This morning I read a review of Bad Indians that was very positive; someone had used it in her
university classroom, which I love to hear about.
But the reviewer took issue with how she saw me blaming my
father’s violence and abusive behavior toward family members on the historical
trauma of Missionization, rather than holding him personally responsible. This perception makes me
sad, because I worked hard in that book to make it clear that historical trauma
was only one part of how I came to
understand my father. I don’t “excuse”
or “forgive” his behavior on the basis of his personal or historical trauma, I understand his behavior because of what
I’ve learned about how indigenous peoples survived genocide so horrific that no
language could express it (in fact, I’ve often thought about the fact that even
if we all spoke our native languages fluently, we still could not express the experiences of genocide. No language can do that; it is a leap that
the human tongue cannot make.)
The difference between forgiveness and understanding is an
important one for me. Yes, as the
reviewer insisted, my father chose to drink, knowing full well that drinking
made him violent and cruel; he also knew that drinking broke him open and
flooded him with grief and despair. And
knowing what alcohol made him do, my father still “chose” to do it. But this is where the reviewer loses
me. Alcoholism, in and of itself, is not a choice. It is a disease. Once someone is an addict, control goes out
the window. And when you are driven to
alcoholism by despair and trauma, by biological bent, by forces too monstrous
to name, that is not a choice.
At times throughout his life, my father tried to quit
drinking. I witnessed him go into rehab
at least twice during my teens, rehab that included nominal counseling and
medical interventions. But he had
nothing else to dull the pain if he didn’t have alcohol – no real emotional
resources, no understanding of his own grief.
Despite knowing that alcohol ruined every human relationship he’d ever
had, he still could not break its hold on him.
Finally, in his old age, he did stop drinking – medical
conditions and medications meant that he could no longer metabolize alcohol as
easily, or as often. My father was more
afraid of dying than he was of his demons, I think - so he detoxed, and stayed sober. There was a long period of time when my
mother didn’t have to be afraid of the phone ringing late at night (divorced,
he still drunk-dialed her regularly), when my dad didn’t wake up in the drunk
tank, when he retired and enjoyed not doing manual labor for the first time in
his entire life. He was a good
grandfather to my two kids, coming down to the house to help me lay new
linoleum or add a half-bath downstairs, fix a little plumbing problem or build
a deck. It was as
if, in his seventies, my dad finally came into his own. He became active in the tribe, attended
gatherings, attempted to repair relationships with my older half sisters. He remarried and formed his last family with
his new wife and a beloved cat in a modest retirement community of other
retired people who had worked hard all their lives. I even went there to share Thanksgiving with
my dad and his wife and a few of the neighbors one year. One of my sisters flew up from California. It was, in a quiet way, miraculous. It didn’t last.
No, he didn’t start drinking again – but as his body fell
apart, as his pain and limitations increased, so did his old anger, and his old
fear, and even older grief. This time he
couldn't take to the bottle and drown his demons. This time he couldn’t find a way to run
away. Yet even without alcohol, he drove away his third wife,
managing to physically threaten and hurt her despite his decrepitude; he ended
up alone in hospice care. Only his
youngest child, my brother, would visit him.
The rest of us kept our distance; we certainly did not want to put
ourselves in the line of fire one last time; the man had shot us down so many
times, and showed no inclination of easing up as he headed toward his own
death. My father wrote hurtful letters
to me; he and I didn’t speak for the last two or three years
of his life. I don’t think he spoke very
often, if at all, to any of his children except his youngest, my brother, who
lived nearby and who had his own complex relationship with our dad.
So although alcohol exacerbated my father's violent behaviors, it seems to me that this self-medication was a symptom of deeper damage, damage that returned when he became helpless and wracked with pain.
Did I let my father off the hook in my writings about
him? Did I pull my punches? (Why do we use images of piercing or blows to
describe the act of choosing not to perpetuate violence?)
No, I don’t forgive my father for the damage he did to our
family. But I do understand the larger
context of why he did the things he did, and the battles he fought that I knew
nothing about. The demons who haunted
him. The way he remained alone all of
his life, unable to share any of his fears with anyone but alcohol. And alcohol was not a good confidant. Where was it, at the end? Off carousing with some other poor sucker,
while my father died mostly alone, as he had lived his life.
I think that was punishment enough. I can spare a little compassion. I’m not sure I can call that
forgiveness. But in writing about my
father, in telling the truth about who he was when I knew him, I wanted to tell
the whole truth: he was good. He was bad.
He was loving and lovable. He was
hateful and mean. He was not, as the
reviewer wrote, “a monster.” He was Al
Miranda.
He was a human being who survived inhumane experiences and did not have any resources, either internally or externally, to figure out what to do with the anger and grief he carried. I wish he had managed it all more gracefully. I don't know for sure that he could have. There are times when I'm not all that sure that I can manage my anger and grief with any grace.
But it's something worth working towards, isn't it?
Word.
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