Not My Father's Son

by Alan Cumming

I smiled at both the men and thanked them. They could not possibly know how much that last sentence resonated with me. All through my childhood, as I toiled my way through the exhaustive, insurmountable series of tasks my father would set me, I would dream that the conclusion of my work would be not the silent inspection followed by the inexorable spiral into anger and the force of his hand propelling me off balance. I dreamt that one day I would not be hit, and over his shoulder as he walked away from me I would hear my father say the words: “You did a good job.” I felt connected to Tommy Darling in ways that went beyond our common lineage. We both lacked the same thing in our childhoods—the love of a father. For different reasons, of course, but it was a shared experience nonetheless. We both sought to fill that lack in our adult lives with family and love, as everyone does, but also with thrills and sometimes periods of recklessness. Luckily, I have always come back from my recklessness. Tommy Darling did not. But I also recognized restlessness in his spirit, a need to challenge himself, that I too have experienced throughout my life. I wondered, if I didn’t have the job I have, which provides me with such thrilling, visceral release, would I be seeking those thrills in destructive ways? I know I love the rush of adrenaline pulsing through my veins. I wonder to what lengths I would go to experience it if I didn’t do what I do?