The Purpose of Fear
Photo by Daniel Subiabre on Unsplash
October 1990
Enormous amounts of information are communicated without words.
"You left it on the playground?!" He seethes through his teeth.
I can still feel the penetrating anger of my father as we drive home in his navy blue Nissan Sentra hatchback, the one I’m always embarrassed to be seen riding in because it’s so much older than the cars my friend’s parents drive. We’re nearly to our destination when my father inquires about the extra layer or clothing that I was wearing in the morning - the one that’s no longer in my possession.
It’s autumn in the Bay Area which means predictably crisp morning air followed by warm afternoons. As soon as he asks the question my mind races back to the precise moment the temperature shifted from chilly to warm, and I removed my turtleneck on the school playground. He violently turns the steering wheel, performing what feels like a dangerous U-turn, and now we’re backtracking all the way to my elementary school on the other side of town. The awkward silence between us is eased by the monotonous droning of the NPR nightly news. I continue to feel red hot intensity escaping from his mouth every time he exhales, in a controlled manner that suggests he could suddenly burst from whatever he’s holding inside. I pray to a higher power that my turtleneck will still be exactly where I left it, before I got immersed in kickball. We get back to my school, and I spot my prize draped over one of the metallic, aluminum benches that borders the yard of the playground. I sprint across the concrete in the light of the golden hour and scoop up the abandoned attire. I run back to my dad's car like a half back for the Forty Niners, clutching the shirt under my folded arms. I climb back in the car, and we repeat our journey home, again without any exchange of words, as the nightly news continues to creak through the speakers. I gaze awkwardly out the window wishing I could be in any vehicle but this one. I’m consumed with guilt and shame for having disappointed my father. How I could be so stupid as to leave my turtleneck on the playground? I don't wonder what he’s thinking, what he’d like to say, or where his emotion originates. I stare blankly at the heavens and hope that we can soon be home and I can flee this tiny metal bubble of intensity traveling at 60 miles per hour towards the High Street exit.
~
Why did this moment burn itself into my memory? Perhaps because it was one of the times I can remember my father expressing emotion, even though the verbal exchange was limited . It wasn’t until I wrote this story and discussed it with my wife that I realized why it was so potent. My father never said “I’m feeling angry.” Once we got home, we never again discussed this incident. Even though his response was relatively mild mannered, it still struck a deep chord of fear within me. I have peers who were physically abused for similar transgressions so I always assumed that my father was the gold standard when it came to discipline. At least he didn't beat me, right? Still, seeing my dad get thrown off his axis and behave in an intense and unusual way was scary to witness as a child. Especially since there was no language to explain what was happening. There was no “hey this is how I felt and why.” All that remained was a deep, primal fear. Don't ever leave anything on the playground again! My father never said the words. He didn’t have to. In the practical sense of keeping possession of my belongings, his unspoken anger worked like a charm. I never left another personal item on the playground again. If that was the goal, then what happened was a huge success.
As I observed myself responding to my son with burning anger, I was forced to reflect on my goals. Was my goal for him to stop throwing food on the floor, stop kicking the cat, or quit drawing on the sofa with crayons? These were all desirable outcomes. However, the primary goal was connection. I wanted my son to feel that I’m a safe place that he can always turn to in times of need. I wanted him to feel this way as a toddler, as a teenager, and as an adult. My father’s anger taught me to never leave my clothes on the playground. It also conditioned me to do whatever was necessary to protect myself from ever experiencing another awkward car ride with him.
~
For a musical interpretation of welcoming uncomfortable emotions, listen to “cup of tea” bu clicking the image below.
“Hello fear, hello anger and sadness,
For so many years you remained in the attic
Of my brain which is tragic cause it made me adapt to
Circumstances, that divided me into factions.”