Not My Father's Son

by Alan Cumming

I came to believe that I, and my failings, were the cause of all my life’s woes: my father’s rage, my parents’ crumbling marriage, my not being able to do anything right. The only time my father even noticed me was when he hit me. Then, and the preceding few moments, were the only time I knew I had the full focus of his attention. But even as a little boy I knew that my association of something so awful with my father’s attention was unhealthy. So then I began to feel guilty for thinking that way, and more convinced it must be my fault that he hit me in the first place. It was an easy spiral to observe from the future, but to a little boy it seemed justified. My father loathed me, so it was only natural I should loathe myself. My mother countered him, though. She told me I was special and loved. And actually, having two such opposing messages, although confusing, was ultimately pretty healthy. My father told me I was worthless, my mother that I was precious. They couldn’t both be right, but they evened each other out and I began to make my own mind up, not just about myself but about everything that was going on around me. I think this was also good training for my future career. I didn’t fully believe what either of my parents said about me, and I’ve taken that approach in dealing with critics of my work. “If you believe the good ones, you have to believe the bad ones” is my mantra. The most important opinion, of both my work and my conduct in life, is my own.