My father was a proud man, and moody. He could be sentimental, loving, hilarious, but he could also explode into violence. My mother explained this had to do with the prejudice and indignities of poverty he’d dealt with in childhood. Explaining away the “bad father” and redirecting us toward the “good enough father” is so often one of a mother’s covert responsibilities. Yet whatever or whomever flashed in those moments, when he wore the charms and called forth this other persona, with both self-mockery and reverence, this trickster figure, hard and cool—well, I did not want this man explained
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