Not My Father's Son

by Alan Cumming

Memory is so subjective. We all remember in a visceral, emotional way, and so even if we agree on the facts—what was said, what happened where and when—what we take away and store from a moment, what we feel about it, can vary radically.

He was asking me to accept that his behavior to me was justified because I was not his blood. He wanted me to condone my own physical and mental abuse.

She started the engine, and we went on our way again, but quietly and meekly now, all triumph and elation gone. The matter was never spoken of again.

What have I done wrong? I ask myself. I know that boys do this. I know it’s inevitable and natural. I just hadn’t realized how good it would feel. So why do I feel anxious for doing what is right? Why should I feel bad because this man saw me? Why? Because he might tell my dad, and like so many others before it, this new happiness will be stamped on. I lie there for a while in the dusk, then make a decision, little knowing how it will affect every facet of my life and fiber of my being for the rest of my life: I say no to shame. This man was the one in the wrong. He was the voyeur, however accidental. But I didn’t wish him ill. I would have done the same. I actually even thought my father would be glad to learn that some progress was being made in the faltering journey to my manhood. So I rejected shame. I went to pull up my jeans but thought against it, and lay back down and looked up at the darkening sky. I closed my eyes.

rejects shame

“Where were they?” I said to his retreating back. “Where were these kids you were thinking of? Cos they sure as hell weren’t Tom and me.”

confronts dad

I was not my father’s son.

title

We all learn lessons from our parents, of course, and they from theirs. But perhaps more importantly we glean our wisdom from our circumstances and our feelings of security, or lack thereof. Mary